M 


LOS  ANGELES 


•  ''tjBk. 


j 


Theo.  Benfzon. 

[From  a  Photograph.} 


rent  Lit 


1910 


• 

JACQUELINE 

By  TH.  BENTZON 
(MME.  BLANC) 

Crowned   by    the    French    Academy 

With   a  Preface  by  M. 
THUREAU-DANGIN 
of  the  French  Academy 

NEW   YORK 

Current  Literature  Publishing  Company 

1910 

COPYRIGHT  1905 

BY 
ROBERT   ARNOT 


COPYRIGHT  1910 

BY 

CURRENT  LITERATURE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


TH.  BENTZON 

?T  is  natural  that  the  attention  and 
affection  of  Americans  should  be  at- 
tracted to  a  woman  who  has  devoted 
herself  assiduously  to  understanding 
and  to  making  known  the  aspirations 
of  our  country,  especially  in  introduc- 
ing the  labors  and  achievements  of 
our  women  to  their  sisters  in  France, 
of  whom  we  also  have  much  to  learn;  for  simple, 
homely  virtues  and  the  charm  of  womanliness  may  still 
be  studied  with  advantage  on  the  cherished  soil  of 
France. 

Marie-The'rese  Blanc,  nee  Solms — for  this  is  the 
name  of  the  author  who  writes  under  the  nom  dt  plume 
of  Madame  Bentzon — is  considered  the  greatest  of 
living  French  female  novelists.  She  was  born  in  an  old 
French  chateau  at  Seine-Porte  (Seine  et  Oise),  Septem- 
ber 21,  1840.  This  chateau  was  owned  by  Madame 
Bentzon's  grandmother,  the  Marquise  de  Vitry,  who 
was  a  woman  of  great  force  and  energy  of  character, 
"a  ministering  angel"  to  her  country  neighborhood. 
Her  grandmother's  first  marriage  was  to  a  Dane,  Major- 
General  Adrien-Benjamin  de  Bentzon,  a  Governor  of 
the  Danish  Antilles.  By  this  marriage  there  was  one 

[v] 


2042184 


PREFACE 

daughter,  the  mother  of  Therese,  who  in  turn  married 
the  Comte  de  Solms.  "This  mixture  of  races,"  Ma- 
dame Blanc  once  wrote,  "surely  explains  a  kind  of 
moral  and  intellectual  cosmopolitanism  which  is  found 
in  my  nature.  My  father  of  German  descent,  my 
mother  of  Danish — my  nom  de  plume  (which  was  her 
maiden-name)  is  Danish — with  Protestant  ancestors 
on  her  side,  though  she  and  I  were  Catholics — my 
grandmother  a  sound  and  witty  Parisian,  gay,  brilliant, 
lively,  with  superb  physical  health  and  the  consequent 
good  spirits — surely  these  materials  could  not  have  pro- 
duced other  than  a  cosmopolitan  being." 

Somehow  or  other,  the  family  became  impoverished. 
Therese  de  Solms  took  to  writing  stories.  After  many 
refusals,  her  debut  took  place  in  the  Revue  des  Deux 
Mondes,  and  her  perseverance  was  largely  due  to  the 
encouragement  she  received  from  George  Sand,  al- 
though that  great  woman  saw  everything  through  the 
magnifying  glass  of  her  genius.  But  the  person  to 
whom  Therese  Bentzon  was  most  indebted  in  the  mat 
ter  of  literary  advice — she  says  herself — was  the  late 
M.  Caro,  the  famous  Sorbonne  professor  of  philosophy, 
himself  an  admirable  writer,  "who  put  me  through  a 
course  of  literature,  acting  as  my  guide  through  a  vast 
amount  of  solid  reading,  and  criticizing  my  work  with 
kindly  severity."  Success  was  slow.  Strange  as  it  may 
seem,  there  is  a  prejudice  against  female  writers  in 
France,  a  country  that  has  produced  so  many  admira- 
able  women-authors.  However,  the  time  was  to  come 
when  M.  Becloz  found  one  of  her  stories  in  the  Journal 
des  Debats.  It  was  the  one  entitled  Un  Divorce,  and  he 

[vi] 


PREFACE 

lost  no  time  in  engaging  the  young  writer  to  become 
one  of  his  staff.  From  that  day  to  this  she  has  found 
the  pages  of  the  Revue  always  open  to  her. 

Madame  Bentzon  is  a  novelist,  translator,  and  writer 
of  literary  essays.  The  list  of  her  works  runs  as  follows: 
Le  Roman  (Pun  Muet  (1868);  Un  Divorce  (1872);  La 
Grande  Sauliere  (1877);  Un  remords  (1878);  Yette  and 
Georgette  (1880);  Le  Retour  (1882);  Tete  folle  (1883); 
Tony,  (1884);  Emancipee  (1887);  Constance  (1891); 
Jacqueline  (1893).  We  need  not  enter  into  the  merits 
of  style  and  composition  if  we  mention  that  Un  remords, 
Tony,  and  Constance  were  crowned  by  the  French 
Academy,  and  Jacqueline  in  1893.  Madame  Bentzon 
is  likewise  the  translator  of  Aldrich,  Bret  Harte, 
Dickens,  and  Ouida.  Some  of  her  critical  works  are : 
Litter ature  et  Mceurs  etrangeres,  1882,  and  Nouveaux 
romanciers  americains,  1885. 


de  l'Acad£mie  Fran<jaise. 


[vii] 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  I 

PAGB 

A  PARISIENNE'S  "AT  HOME" i 

CHAPTER  II 
A  CLEVER  STEPMOTHER 28 

CHAPTER  HI 
THE  FRIEND  OF  THE  FAMILY 40 

CHAPTER  IV 
A  DANGEROUS  MODEL 63 

CHAPTER  V 
SURPRISES 72 

CHAPTER  VI 
A  CONVENT  FLOWER 91 

CHAPTER  VII 
THE  BLUE  BAND 106 

CHAPTER  VIII 
A  PUZZLING  CORRESPONDENCE 133 

CHAPTER  IX 
BEAUTY  AT  THE  FAIR 148 

CHAPTER  X 

GISELLE'S  CONSOLATION 162 

[ix] 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  XI 

PAGE 

FRED  ASKS  A  QUESTION 170 

CHAPTER  XII 
A  COMEDY  AND  A  TRAGEDY 186 

CHAPTER  XIII 
THE  STORM  BREAKS 199 

CHAPTER  XIV 
BITTER  DISILLUSION 213 

CHAPTER  XV 
TREACHEROUS  KINDNESS 232 

CHAPTER  XVI 
THE  SAILOR'S  RETURN 253 

CHAPTER  XVII 
TWIN  DEVILS 268 

CHAPTER  XVIII 
"AN  AFFAIR  OF  HONOR" 280 

CHAPTER  XIX 
GENTLE  CONSPIRATORS 291 

CHAPTER  XX 
A  CHIVALROUS  SOUL 299 


JACQUELINE 

CHAPTER  I 

A  PARISIENNE'S  "AT  HOME" 

ESPITE  a  short  frock,  checked  stock- 
ings, wide  turned-over  collar,  and  a 
loose  sash  around  the  waist  of  her 
blouse — in  other  words,  despite  the 
childish  fashion  of  a  dress  which 
seemed  to  denote  that  she  was  not 
more  than  thirteen  or  fourteen  years 
of  age,  she  seemed  much  older.  An 
observer  would  have  put  her  down  as  the  oldest  of  the 
young  girls  who  on  Tuesdays,  at  Madame  de  Nailles's 
afternoons,  filled  what  was  called  "the  young  girls' 
corner"  with  whispered  merriment  and  low  laughter, 
while,  under  pretence  of  drinking  tea,  the  noise  went  on 
which  is  always  audible  when  there  is  anything  to  eat. 
No  doubt  the  amber  tint  of  this  young  girl's  com- 
plexion, the  raven  blackness  of  her  hair,  her  marked  yet 
delicate  features,  and  the  general  impression  produced 
by  her  dark  coloring,  were  reasons  why  she  seemed 
older  than  the  rest.  It  was  Jacqueline's  privilege  to 
exhibit  that  style  of  beauty  which  comes  earliest  to  per- 
fection, and  retains  it  longest;  and,  what  was  an  equal 
privilege,  she  resembled  no  one. 


TH^O  BENTZON 

The  deep  bow- window — her  favorite  spot — which  en- 
abled her  to  have  a  reception-day  in  connection  with 
that  of  her  mamma,  seemed  like  a  great  basket  of  roses 
when  all  her  friends  assembled  there,  seated  on  low 
chairs  in  unstudied  attitudes:  the  white  rose  of  the 
group  was  Mademoiselle  d'Etaples,  a  specimen  of  pale 
and  pensive  beauty,  frail  almost  to  transparency;  the 
Rose  of  Bengal  was  the  charming  Colette  Odinska,  a 
girl  of  Polish  race,  but  born  in  Paris;  the  dark-red  rose 
was  Isabelle  Ray — Belle  she  was  called  triumphantly — 
whose  dimpled  cheeks  flushed  scarlet  for  almost  any 
cause,  some  said  for  very  coquetry.  Then  there  were 
three  little  girls  called  Wermant,  daughters  of  an  agent 
de  change — a  spray  of  May  roses,  exactly  alike  in  feat- 
ures, manners,  and  dress,  sprightly  and  charming  as 
little  girls  could  be.  A  little  pompon  rose  was  tiny  Doro- 
the"e  d'Avrigny,  to  whom  the  pet  name  Dolly  was  appro- 
priate, for  never  had  any  doll's  waxen  face  been  more 
lovely  than  her  little  round  one,  with  its  mouth  shaped 
like  a  little  heart — a  mouth  smaller  than  her  eyes,  and 
these  were  round  eyes,  too,  but  so  bright,  and  blue,  and 
soft,  that  it  was  easy  to  overlook  their  too  frequently 
startled  expression. 

Jacqueline  had  nothing  in  common  with  a  rose  of 
any  kind,  but  she  was  not  the  less  charming  to  look  at. 
Such  was  the  unspoken  reflection  of  a  man  who  was 
well  able  to  be  a  judge  in  such  matters.  His  name  was 
Hubert  Marien.  He  was  a  great  painter,  and  was  now 
watching  the  clear-cut,  somewhat  Arab-like  profile  of 
this  girl — a  profile  brought  out  distinctly  against  the 
dark-red  silk  background  of  a  screen,  much  as  we  see 


JACQUELINE 

a  cameo  stand  out  in  sharp  relief  from  the  glittering 
stone  from  which  the  artist  has  fashioned  it.  Marien 
looked  at  her  from  a  distance,  leaning  against  the  fire- 
place of  the  farther  salon,  whence  he  could  see  plainly 
the  corner  shaded  by  green  foliage  plants  where  Jacque- 
line had  made  her  niche,  as  she  called  it.  The  two 
rooms  formed  practically  but  one,  being  separated  only 
by  a  large  recess  without  folding-doors,  or  portieres. 
Hubert  Marien,  from  his  place  behind  Madame  de 
Nailles's  chair,  had  often  before  watched  Jacqueline 
as  he  was  watching  her  at  this  moment.  She  had 
grown  up,  as  it  were,  under  his  own  eye.  He  had  seen 
her  playing  with  her  dolls,  absorbed  in  her  story-books, 
and  crunching  sugar-plums,  he  had  paid  her  visits— 
for  how  many  years?  He  did  not  care  to  count 
them. 

And  little  girls  bloom  fast!  How  old  they  make  us 
feel !  Who  would  have  supposed  the  most  unpromising 
of  little  buds  would  have  transformed  itself  so  soon  into 
what  he  gazed  upon?  Marien,  as  an  artist,  had  great 
pleasure  in  studying  the  delicate  outline  of  that  graceful 
head  surmounted  by  thick  tresses,  with  rebellious  ring- 
lets rippling  over  the  brow  before  they  were  gathered 
into  the  thick  braid  that  hung  behind ;  and  Jacqueline, 
although  she  appeared  to  be  wholly  occupied  with  her 
guests,  felt  the  gaze  that  was  fixed  upon  her,  and  was 
conscious  of  its  magnetic  influence,  from  which  nothing 
would  have  induced  her  to  escape  even  had  she  been 
able.  All  the  young  girls  were  listening  attentively 
(despite  their  more  serious  occupation  of  consuming 
dainties)  to  what  was  going  on  in  the  next  room  among 

[3] 


BENTZON 

the  grown-up  people,  whose  conversation  reached  them 
only  in  detached  fragments. 

So  long  as  the  subject  talked  about  was  the  last  re- 
ception at  the  French  Academy,  these  young  girls  (com- 
rades in  the  class-room  and  at  the  weekly  catechising) 
had  been  satisfied  to  discuss  together  their  own  little 
affairs,  but  after  Colonel  de  Valdonjon  began  to  talk 
complete  silence  reigned  among  them.  One  might  have 
heard  the  buzzing  of  a  fly.  Their  attention,  however, 
was  of  little  use.  Exclamations  of  oh!  and  ah!  and 
protests  more  or  less  sincere  drowned  even  the  loud  and 
somewhat  hoarse  voice  of  the  Colonel.  The  girls  heard 
it  only  through  a  sort  of  general  murmur,  out  of  which 
a  burst  of  astonishment  or  of  dissent  would  occasion- 
ally break  forth.  These  outbreaks  were  all  the  curious 
group  could  hear  distinctly.  They  sniffed,  as  it  were, 
at  the  forbidden  fruit,  but  they  longed  to  inhale  the  full 
perfume  of  the  scandal  that  they  felt  was  in  the  air.  That 
stout  officer  of  cuirassiers,  of  whom  some  people  spoke 
as  "The  Chatterbox,"  took  advantage  of  his  profession 
to  tell  many  an  unsavory  story  which  he  had  picked  up 
or  invented  at  his  club.  He  had  come  to  Madame  de 
Nailles's  reception  with  a  brand-new  concoction  of 
falsehood  and  truth,  a  story  likely  to  be  hawked  round 
Paris  with  great  success  for  several  weeks  to  come, 
though  ladies  on  first  hearing  it  would  think  proper  to 
cry  out  that  they  would  not  even  listen  to  it,  and  would 
pretend  to  look  round  them  for  their  fans  to  hide  their 
confusion. 

The  principal  object  of  interest  in  this  scandalous 
gossip  was  a  valuable  diamond  bracelet,  one  of  those 

[4] 


JACQUELINE 

priceless  bits  of  jewelry  seldom  seen  except  in  show- 
windows  on  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  intended  to  be  bought 
only  for  presentation  to  princesses — of  some  sort  or 
kind.  Well,  by  an  extraordinary  chance  the  Marquise 
de  Versannes — aye,  the  lovely  Georgine  de  Versannes 
herself — had  picked  up  this  bracelet  in  the  street — by 
chance,  as  it  were. 

"It  so  happened,"  said  the  Colonel,  "that  I  was  at 
her  mother-in-law's,  where  she  was  going  to  dine.  She 
came  in  looking  as  innocent  as  you  please,  with  her 
hand  in  her  pocket.  '  Oh,  see  what  I  have  found ! '  she 
cried.  'I  stepped  upon  it  almost  at  your  door.'  And 
the  bracelet  was  placed  under  a  lamp,  where  the  dia- 
monds shot  out  sparkles  fit  to  blind  the  old  Marquise, 
and  make  that  old  fool  of  a  Versannes  see'  a  thousand 
lights.  He  has  long  known  better  than  to  take  all  his 
wife  says  for  gospel — but  he  tries  hard  to  pretend  that 
he  believes  her.  'My  dear,'  he  said,  'you  must  take 
that  to  the  police.'  'I'll  send  it  to-morrow  morning/ 
says  the  charming  Georgine,  'but  I  wished  to  show  you 
my  good  luck.'  Of  course  nobody  came  forward  to 
claim  the  bracelet,  and  a  month  later  Madame  de  Ver- 
sannes appeared  at  the  Cranfords'  ball  with  a  brilliant 
diamond  bracelet,  worn  like  the  Queen  of  Sheba's,  high 
up  on  her  arm,  near  the  shoulder,  to  hide  the  lack  of 
sleeve.  This  piece  of  finery,  which  drew  everybody's 
attention  to  the  wearer,  was  the  famous  bracelet  picked 
up  in  the  street.  Clever  of  her ! — wasn't  it,  now  ?  " 

"Horrid!  Unlikely!  Impossible.  .  .  .  What  do  you 
mean  us  to  understand  about  it,  Colonel?  Could  she 
have  .  .  .  ?" 

[5] 


BENTZON 

Then  the  Colonel  went  on  to  demonstrate,  with  many 
coarse  insinuations,  that  that  good  Georgine,  as  he 
familiarly  called  her,  had  done  many  more  things  than 
people  gave  her  credit  for.  And  he  went  on  to  add: 
"Surely,  you  must  have  heard  of  the  row  about  her  be- 
tween Givrac  and  the  Homme-Volant  at  the  Cirque?" 

"What,  the  man  that  wears  stockinet  all  covered 
with  gold  scales?  Do  tell  us,  Colonel!" 

But  here  Madame  de  Nailles  gave  a  dry  little  cough 
which  was  meant  to  impose  silence  on  the  subject.  She 
was  not  a  prude,  but  she  disapproved  of  anything  that 
was  bad  form  at  her  receptions.  The  Colonel's  revela- 
tions had  to  be  made  in  a  lower  tone,  while  his  hostess 
endeavored  to  bring  back  the  conversation  to  the  charm- 
ing reply  made  by  M.  Renan  to  the  somewhat  insipid 
address  of  a  member  of  the  Academic . 

"We  sha'n't  hear  anything  more  now,"  said  Colette, 
with  a  sigh.  "Did  you  understand  it,  Jacqueline?" 

"  Understand— what  ?" 

"Why,  that  story  about  the  bracelet?" 

"No — not  all.  The  Colonel  seemed  to  imply  that 
she  had  not  picked  it  up,  and  indeed  I  don't  see  how 
any  one  could  have  dropped  in  the  street,  in  broad  day- 
light, a  bracelet  meant  only  to  be  worn  at  night — a 
bracelet  worn  near  the  shoulder." 

"But  if  she  did  not  pick  it  up — she  must  have  stolen 
it." 

"Stolen  it?"  cried  Belle.  "Stolen  it!  What!  The 
Marquise  de  Versannes?  Why,  she  inherited  the  finest 
diamonds  hi  Paris!" 

"How  do  you  know?" 

[6] 


JACQUELINE 

"Because  mamma  sometimes  takes  me  to  the  Opera, 
and  her  subscription  day  is  the  same  as  that  of  the 
Marquise.  People  say  a  good  deal  of  harm  of  her — in 
whispers.  They  say  she  is  barely  received  now  in  so- 
ciety, that  people  turn  their  backs  on  her,  and  so  forth, 
and  so  on.  However,  that  did  not  hinder  her  from  be- 
ing superb  the  other  evening  at  Polyeucte." 

"So  you  only  go  to  see  Polyeucte?"  said  Jacqueline, 
making  a  little  face  as  if  she  despised  that  opera. 

"Yes,  I  have  seen  it  twice.  Mamma  lets  me  go  to 
Polyeucte  and  Guillaume  Tell,  and  to  the  Prophete,  but 
she  won't  take  me  to  see  Faust — and  it  is  just  Faust 
that  I  want  to  see.  Isn't  it  provoking  that  one  can't  see 
everything,  hear  everything,  understand  everything? 
You  see,  we  could  not  half  understand  that  story  which 
seemed  to  amuse  the  people  so  much  in  the  other  room. 
Why  did  they  send  back  the  bracelet  from  the  Prefec- 
ture to  Madame  de  Versannes  if  it  was  not  hers?" 

"Yes — why?"  said  all  the  little  girls,  much  puzzled. 

Meantime,  as  the  hour  for  closing  the  exhibition  at 
the  neighboring  hippodrome  had  arrived,  visitors  came 
pouring  into  Madame  de  Nailles's  reception — tall, 
graceful  women,  dressed  with  taste  and  elegance,  as 
befitted  ladies  who  were  interested  in  horsemanship. 
The  tone  of  the  conversation  changed.  Nothing  was 
talked  about  but  superb  horses,  leaps  over  ribbons  and 
other  obstacles.  The  young  girls  interested  themselves 
in  the  spring  toilettes,  which  they  either  praised  or 
criticised  as  they  passed  before  their  eyes. 

"Oh!  there  is  Madame  Villegry,"  cried  Jacqueline; 
"how  handsome  she  is!  I  should  like  one  of  these  days 

[7] 


TH^O  BENTZON 

to  be  that  kind  of  beauty,  so  tall  and  slender.  Her 
waist  measure  is  only  twenty-one  and  two  thirds  inches. 
The  woman  who  makes  her  corsets  and  my  mamma's 
told  us  so.  She  brought  us  one  of  her  corsets  to  look  at, 
a  love  of  a  corset,  in  brocatelle,  all  over  many-colored 
flowers.  That  material  is  much  more  distingue  than 
the  old  satin— 

"But  what  a  queer  idea  it  is  to  waste  all  that  upon 
a  thing  that  nobody  will  ever  look  at,"  said  Dolly,  her 
round  eyes  opening  wider  than  before. 

"  Oh!  it  is  just  to  please  herself,  I  suppose.  I  under- 
stand that!  Besides,  nothing  is  too  good  for  such  a  fig- 
ure. But  what  I  admire  most  is  her  extraordinary  hair." 

"Which  changes  its  color  now  and  then,"  observed 
the  sharpest  of  the  three  Wermant  sisters.  "Extraor- 
dinary is  just  the  word  for  it.  At  present  it  is  dark  red. 
Henna  did  that,  I  suppose.  Raoul — our  brother — 
when  he  was  in  Africa  saw  Arab  women  who  used 
henna.  They  tied  their  heads  up  in  a  sort  of  poultice 
made  of  little  leaves,  something  like  tea-leaves.  In 
twenty-four  hours  the  hair  will  be  dyed  red,  and  will 
stay  red  for  a  year  or  more.  You  can  try  it  if  you  like. 
I  think  it  is  disgusting." 

"Oh!  look,  there  is  Madame  de  Sternay.  I  recog- 
nized her  by  her  perfume  before  I  had  even  seen  her. 
What  delightful  things  good  perfumes  are!" 

"What  is  it?  Is  it  heliotrope  or  jessamine?"  asked 
Yvonne  d'Etaples,  sniffing  in  the  air. 

"No — it  is  only  orris-root — nothing  but  orris-root; 
but  she  puts  it  everywhere  about  her — in  the  hem  of 
her  petticoat,  in  the  lining  of  her  dress.  She  lives,  one 

[8] 


JACQUELINE 

might  say,  in  the  middle  of  a  sachet.  The  thing  that 
will  please  me  most  when  I  am  married  will  be  to  have 
no  limit  to  my  perfumes.  Till  then  I  have  to  satisfy 
myself  with  very  little,"  sighed  Jacqueline,  drawing  a 
little  bunch  of  violets  from  the  loose  folds  of  her  blouse, 
and  inhaling  their  fragrance  with  delight. 

"Tiens!  here  comes  somebody  who  has  to  be  con- 
tented with  much  less,"  said  Yvonne,  as  a  young  girl 
joined  their  circle.  She  was  small,  awkward,  timid, 
and  badly  dressed.  On  seeing  her  Colette  whispered: 
"Oh!  that  tiresome  Giselle.  We  sha'n't  be  able  to  talk 
another  word." 

Jacqueline  kissed  Giselle  de  Monredon.  They  were 
distant  cousins,  though  they  saw  each  other  very  sel- 
dom. Giselle  was  an  orphan,  having  lost  both  her 
father  and  her  mother,  and  was  being  educated  in  a 
convent  from  which  she  was  allowed  to  come  out  only 
on  great  occasions.  Her  grandmother,  whose  ideas 
were  those  of  the  old  school,  had  placed  her  there.  The 
Easter  holidays  accounted  for  Giselle's  unexpected 
arrival.  Wrapped  in  a  large  cloak  which  covered  up 
her  convent  uniform,  she  looked,  as  compared  with  the 
gay  girls  around  her,  like  a  poor  sombre  night-moth,  daz- 
zled by  the  light,  in  company  with  other  glittering  crea- 
tures of  the  insect  race,  fluttering  with  graceful  move- 
ments, transparent  wings  and  shining  corselets. 

"Come  and  have  some  sandwiches,"  said  Jacque- 
line, and  she  drew  Giselle  to  the  tea-table,  with  the 
kind  intention  apparently  of  making  her  feel  more  at 
her  ease.  But  she  had  another  motive.  She  saw  some 
one  who  was  very  interesting  to  her  coming  at  that  mo- 

[9] 


THEO  BENTZON 

ment  toward  the  table.  That  some  one  was  a  man 
about  forty,  whose  pointed  black  beard  was  becoming 
slightly  gray — a  man  whom  some  people  thought  ugly, 
chiefly  because  they  had  never  seen  his  somewhat  irreg- 
ular features  illumined  by  a  smile  which,  spreading 
from  his  lips  to  his  eyes,  lighted  up  his  face  and  trans- 
formed it.  The  smile  of  Hubert  Marien  was  rare, 
however.  He  was  exclusive  in  his  friendships,  often 
silent,  always  somewhat  unapproachable.  He  seldom 
troubled  himself  to  please  any  one  he  did  not  care  for. 
In  society  he  was  not  seen  to  advantage,  because  he 
was  extremely  bored,  for  which  reason  he  was  seldom 
to  be  seen  at  the  Tuesday  receptions  of  Madame  de 
Nailles;  while,  on  other  days,  he  frequented  the  house 
as  an  intimate  friend  of  the  family.  Jacqueline  had 
known  him  all  her  life,  and  for  her  he  had  always  his 
beautiful  smile.  He  had  petted  her  when  she  was  little, 
and  had  been  much  amused  by  the  sort  of  adoration 
she  had  no  hesitation  in  showing  that  she  felt  for  him. 
He  used  to  call  her  Mademoiselle  ma  femme,  and  M.  de 
Nailles  would  speak  of  him  as  "my  daughter's  future 
husband."  This  joke  had  been  kept  up  till  the  little 
lady  had  reached  her  ninth  year,  when  it  ceased,  prob- 
ably by  order  of  Madame  de  Nailles,  who  in  matters 
of  propriety  was  very  punctilious.  Jacqueline,  too, 
became  less  familiar  than  she  had  been  with  the  man 
she  called  "  my  great  painter."  Indeed,  in  her  heart 
of  hearts,  she  cherished  a  grudge  against  him.  She 
thought  he  presumed  on  the  right  he  had  assumed  of 
teasing  her.  The  older  she  grew  the  more  he  treated 
her  as  if  she  were  a  baby,  and,  in  the  little  passages  of 

[10] 


arms  that  continually  took  place  between  them,  Jacque- 
line was  bitterly  conscious  that  she  no  longer  had  the 
best  of  it  as  formerly.  She  was  no  longer  as  droll  and 
lively  as  she  had  been.  She  was  easily  disconcerted, 
and  took  everything  au  serieux,  and  her  wits  became 
paralyzed  by  an  embarrassment  that  was  new  to  her. 
And,  pained  by  the  sort  of  sarcasm  which  Marien  kept 
up  in  all  their  intercourse,  she  was  often  ready  to  burst 
into  tears  after  talking  to  him.  Yet  she  was  never  quite 
satisfied  unless  he  was  present.  She  counted  the  days 
from  one  Wednesday  to  another,  for  on  Wednesdays  he 
always  dined  with  them,  and  she  greeted  any  oppor- 
tunity of  seeing  him  on  other  days  as  a  great  pleasure. 
This  week,  for  example,  would  be  marked  with  a  white 
stone.  She  would  have  seen  him  twice.  For  half  an 
hour  Marien  had  been  enduring  the  bore  of  the  recep- 
tion, standing  silent  and  self-absorbed  in  the  midst  of 
the  gay  talk,  which  did  not  interest  him.  He  wished  to 
escape,  but  was  always  kept  from  doing  so  by  some 
word  or  sign  from  Madame  de  Nailles.  Jacqueline 
had  been  thinking:  "Oh!  if  he  would  only  come  and 
talk  to  us!"  He  was  now  drawing  near  them,  and  an 
instinct  made  her  wish  to  rush  up  to  him  and  tell  him — 
what  should  she  tell  him?  She  did  not  know.  A  few 
moments  before  so  many  things  to  tell  him  had  been 
passing  through  her  brain. 

What  she  said  was:  "Monsieur  Marien,  I  recom- 
mend to  you  these  little  spiced  cakes."  And,  with  some 
awkwardness,  because  her  hand  was  trembling,  she 
held  out  the  plate  to  him. 

"No,  thank  you,  Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  affecting  a 


THEO  BENTZON 

tone  of  great  ceremony,  "I  prefer  to  take  this  glass  of 
punch,  if  you  will  permit  me." 

"The  punch  is  cold,  I  fear; — suppose  we  were  to  put 
a  little  tea  in  it.  Stay — let  me  help  you." 

"A  thousand  thanks;  but  I  like  to  attend  to  such 
little  cookeries  myself.  By  the  way,  it  seems  to  me  that 
Mademoiselle  Giselle,  in  her  character  of  an  angel  who 
disapproves  of  the  good  things  of  this  life,  has  not  left 
us  much  to  eat  at  your  table." 

"Who — I?"  cried  the  poor  schoolgirl,  in  a  tone  of 
injured  innocence  and  astonishment. 

"Don't  pay  any  attention  to  him,"  said  Jacqueline, 
as  if  taking  her  under  her  protection.  "He  is  nothing 
but  a  tease;  what  he  says  is  only  chaff.  But  I  might  as 
well  talk  Greek  to  her,"  she  added,  shrugging  her  shoul- 
ders. "In  the  convent  they  don't  know  what  to  make 
of  a  joke.  Only  spare  her  at  least,  if  you  please,  Mon- 
sieur Marien." 

"I  know  by  report  that  Mademoiselle  Giselle  is 
worthy  of  the  most  profound  respect,"  continued  the 
pitiless  painter.  "I  lay  myself  at  her  feet — and  at 
yours.  Now  I  am  going  to  slip  away  in  the  English 
fashion.  Good-evening." 

"Why  do  you  go  so  soon?  You  can't  do  any  more 
work  to-day." 

"No,  it  has  been  a  day  lost — that  is  true." 

"That's  polite!  By  the  way—  "  here  Jacqueline  be- 
came very  red  and  she  spoke  rapidly — "what  made  you 
just  now  stare  at  me  so  persistently?" 

"I?  Impossible  that  I  could  have  permitted  myself 
to  stare  at  you,  Mademoiselle." 

[12] 


JACQUELINE 

"That  is  just  what  you  did,  though.  I  thought  you 
had  found  something  to  find  fault  with.  What  could 
it  be  ?  I  fancied  there  was  something  wrong  with  my 
hair,  something  absurd  that  you  were  laughing  at. 
You  always  do  laugh,  you  know." 

"Wrong  with  your  hair?  It  is  always  wrong.  But 
that  is  not  your  fault.  You  are  not  responsible  for  its 
looking  like  a  hedgehog's." 

"Hedgehogs  haven't  any  hair,"  said  Jacqueline, 
much  hurt  by  the  observation. 

"True,  they  have  only  prickles,  which  remind  me  of 
the  susceptibility  of  your  temper.  I  beg  your  pardon— 
I  was  looking  at  you  critically.  Being  myself  indulgent 
and  kind-hearted,  I  was  only  looking  at  you  from  an 
artist's  point  of  view — as  is  always  allowable  in  my  pro- 
fession. Remember,  I  see  you  very  rarely  by  daylight. 
I  am  obliged  to  work  as  long  as  the  light  allows  me. 
Well,  in  the  light  of  this  April  sunshine  I  was  saying  to 
myself — excuse  my  boldness! — that  you  had  reached 
the  right  age  for  a  picture." 

' '  For  a  picture  ?  Were  you  thinking  of  painting  me  ?  " 
cried  Jacqueline,  radiant  with  pleasure. 

"Hold  a  moment,  please.    Between  a  dream  and  its 
^, 'execution  lies  a  great  space.    I  was  only  imagining  a 
picture  of  you." 

"But  my  portrait  would  be  frightful." 

"Possibly.  But  that  would  depend  on  the  skill  of 
the  painter." 

"And  yet  a  model  should  be — I  am  so  thin,"  said 
Jacqueline,  with  confusion  and  discouragement. 
'True;  your  limbs  are  like  a  grasshopper's," 


BENTZON 

"Oh!  you  mean  my  legs — but  my  arms.  ..." 

"Your  arms  must  be  like  your  legs.  But,  sitting  as 
you  were  just  now,  I  could  see  only  your  head,  which  is 
better.  So!  one  has  to  be  accountable  for  looking  at 
you?  Mademoiselle  feels  herself  affronted  if  any  one 
stares  at  her!  I  will  remember  this  in  future.  There, 
now !  suppose,  instead  of  quarrelling  with  me,  you  were 
to  go  and  cast  yourself  into  the  arms  of  your  cousin 
Fred." 

"Fred!  Fredd'Argy!    Fred  is  at  Brest." 

"Where  are  your  eyes,  my  dear  child?  He  has  just 
come  in  with  his  mother." 

And  at  that  moment  Madame  de  Nailles,  with  her 
pure,  clear  voice — a  voice  frequently  compared  to  that 
of  Mademoiselle  Reichemberg,  called : 

"Jacqueline!" 

Jacqueline  never  crossed  the  imaginary  line  which 
divided  the  two  salons  unless  she  was  called  upon  to  do 
so.  She  was  still  summoned  like  a  child  to  speak  to 
certain  persons  who  took  an  especial  interest  in  her, 
and  who  were  kind  enough  to  wish  to  see  her — Ma- 
dame d'Argy,  for  example,  who  had  been  the  dearest 
friend  of  her  dead  mother.  The  death  of  that  mother, 
who  had  been  long  replaced  by  a  stepmother,  could 
hardly  be  said  to  be  deeply  regretted  by  Jacqueline. 
She  remembered  her  very  indistinctly.  The  stories  of 
her  she  had  heard  from  Modeste,  her  old  nurse,  prob- 
ably served  her  instead  of  any  actual  memory.  She 
knew  her  only  as  a  woman  pale  and  in  ill  health,  always 
lying  on  a  sofa.  The  little  black  frock  that  had  been 
made  for  her  had  been  hardly  worn  out  when  a  new 


JACQUELINE 

mamma,  as  gay  and  fresh  as  the  other  had  been  sick 
and  suffering,  had  come  into  the  household  like  a  ray 
of  sunshine. 

After  that  time  Madame  d'Argy  and  Modeste  were 
the  only  people  who  spoke  to  her  of  the  mother  who 
was  gone.  Madame  d'Argy,  indeed,  came  on  certain 
days  to  take  her  to  visit  the  tomb,  on  which  the  child 
read,  as  she  prayed  for  the  departed: 

MARIE  JACQUELINE  ADELAIDE  DE  VALTLER 

BARONNE  DE  NATLLES 
DIED   AGED   TWENTY-SIX   YEARS. 

And  such  filial  sentiment  as  she  still  retained,  con- 
cerning the  unknown  being  who  had  been  her  mother, 
was  tinged  by  her  association  with  this  melancholy  pil- 
grimage which  she  was  expected  to  perform  at  certain 
intervals.  Without  exactly  knowing  the  reason  why, 
Jacqueline  was  conscious  of  a  certain  hostility  that  ex- 
isted between  Madame  d'Argy  and  her  stepmother. 

The  intimate  friend  of  the  first  Madame  de  Nailles 
was  a  woman  with  neither  elegance  nor  beauty.  She 
never  had  left  off  her  widow's  weeds,  which  she  had 
worn  since  she  had  lost  her  husband  in  early  youth.  In 
the  eyes  of  Jacqueline  her  sombre  figure  personified 
austere,  exacting  Duty,  a  kind  of  duty  not  attractive  to 
her.  That  very  day  it  seemed  as  if  duty  inconveniently 
stepped  in  to  break  up  a  conversation  that  was  deeply 
interesting  to  her.  The  impatient  gesture  that  she 
made  when  her  mother  called  her  might  have  been  in- 
terpreted into :  Bother  Madame  d'Argy ! 

[15] 


BENTZON 

"Jacqueline!"  called  again  the  silvery  voice  that  had 
first  summoned  her;  and  a  moment  after  the  young 
girl  found  herself  in  the  centre  of  a  circle  of  grown 
people,  saying  good-morning,  making  curtseys,  and 
kissing  the  withered  hand  of  old  Madame  de  Mon- 
redon,  as  she  had  been  taught  to  do  from  infancy. 
Madame  de  Monredon  was  Giselle's  grandmother. 
Jacqueline  had  been  instructed  to  call  her  "aunt;" 
but  in  her  heart  she  called  her  La  Fee  Grognon,  while 
Madame  d'Argy,  pointing  to  her  son,  said:  "What  do 
you  think,  darling,  of  such  a  surprise  ?  He  is  home  on 
leave.  We  came  here  the  first  place — naturally." 

"It  was  very  nice  of  you.  How  do  you  do,  Fred?" 
said  Jacqueline,  holding  out  her  hand  to  a  very  young 
man,  in  a  jacket  ornamented  with  gold  lace,  who  stood 
twisting  his  cap  in  his  hand  with  some  embarrassment : 
"It  is  a  long  time  since  we  have  seen  each  other.  But 
it  does  not  seem  to  me  that  you  have  grown  a  great 
deal." 

Fred  blushed  up  to  the  roots  of  his  hair. 

"No  one  can  say  that  of  you,  Jacqueline,"  observed 
Madame  d'Argy. 

"No — what  a  may-pole! — isn't  she?"  said  the  Ba- 
ronne,  carelessly. 

"If  she  realizes  it,"  whispered  Madame  de  Monre- 
don, who  was  sitting  beside  Madame  d'Argy  on  a 
causeuse  shaped  like  an  S,  "why  does  she  persist  in 
dressing  her  like  a  child  six  years  old?  It  is  absurd!" 

"Still,  she  can  have  no  reason  for  keeping  her  thus 
in  order  to  make  herself  seem  young.  She  is  only  a 
stepmother." 

[16] 


JACQUELINE 

"Of  course.  But  people  might  make  comparisons. 
Beauty  in  the  bud  sometimes  blooms  out  unexpect- 
edly when  it  is  not  welcome." 

"Yes — she  is  fading  fast.  Small  women  ought  not  to 
grow  stout." 

"Anyhow,  I  have  no  patience  with  her  for  keeping 
a  girl  of  fifteen  in  short  skirts." 

"You  are  making  her  out  older  than  she  is." 

"How  is  that? — how  is  that?  She  is  two  years 
younger  than  Giselle,  who  has  just  entered  her  eigh- 
teenth year." 

While  the  two  ladies  were  exchanging  these  little  re- 
marks, the  Baronne  de  Nailles  was  saying  to  the  young 
naval  cadet: 

"Monsieur  Fred,  we  should  be  charmed  to  keep  you 
with  us,  but  possibly  you  might  like  to  see  some  of  your 
old  friends.  Jacqueline  can  take  you  to  them.  They 
will  be  glad  to  see  you." 

"Tiens! — that's  true,"  said  Jacqueline.  "Dolly  and 
Belle  are  yonder.  You  remember  Isabelle  Ray,  who 
used  to  take  dancing  lessons  with  us." 

"Of  course  I  do,"  said  Fred,  following  his  cousin 
with  a  feeling  of  regret  that  his  sword  was  not  knocking 
against  his  legs,  increasing  his  importance  in  the  eyes  of 
all  the  ladies  who  were  present.  He  was  not,  however, 
sorry  to  leave  their  imposing  circle.  Above  all,  he  was 
glad  to  escape  from  the  clear-sighted,  critical  eyes  of 
Madame  de  Nailles.  On  the  other  hand,  to  be  sent 
off  to  the  girls'  corner,  after  being  insulted  by  being 
told  he  had  not  grown,  hurt  his  sense  of  self-impor- 
tance. 

2  [17] 


BENTZON 

Meantime  Jacqueline  was  taking  him  back  to  her 
own  corner,  where  he  was  greeted  by  two  or  three  little 
exclamations  of  surprise,  shaking  hands,  however,  as 
his  former  playmates  drew  their  skirts  around  them, 
trying  to  make  room  for  him  to  sit  down. 

"Young  ladies,"  said  Jacqueline,  "I  present  to  you 
a  bordachien — a  little  middy  from  the  practice-ship  the 
Borda." 

They  burst  out  laughing:  "A  bordachien!  A  middy 
from  the  practice-ship!"  they  cried. 

"I  shall  not  be  much  longer  on  the  practice-ship," 
said  the  young  man,  with  a  gesture  which  seemed  as  if 
his  hand  were  feeling  for  the  hilt  of  his  sword,  which 
was  not  there,  "for  I  am  going  very  soon  on  my  first 
voyage  as  an  ensign." 

"Yes,"  explained  Jacqueline,  "he  is  going  to  be 
transferred  from  the  Borda  to  the  Jean-Bart — which, 
by  the  way,  is  no  longer  the  Jean-Bart,  only  people  call 
her  so  because  they  are  used  to  it.  Meantime  you  see 
before  you  "C,"  the  great  "C,"  the  famous  "C,"  that 
is,  he  is  the  pupil  who  stands  highest  on  the  roll  of  the 
naval  school  at  this  moment." 

There  was  a  vague  murmur  of  applause.  Poor  Fred 
was  indeed  in  need  of  some  appreciation  on  the  score 
of  merit,  for  he  was  not  much  to  look  upon,  being  at  that 
trying  age  when  a  young  fellow's  moustache  is  only  a 
light  down,  an  age  at  which  youths  always  look  their 
worst,  and  are  awkward  and  unsociable  because  they 
are  timid. 

"Then  you  are  no  longer  an  idle  fellow,"  said  Dolly, 
rather  teasingly.  "People  used  to  say  that  you  went 

[18] 


JACQUELINE 

into  the  navy  to  get  rid  of  your  lessons.  That  I  can 
quite  understand." 

"Oh,  he  has  passed  many  difficult  exams.,"  cried 
Giselle,  coming  to  the  rescue. 

"I  thought  I  had  had  enough  of  school,"  said  Fred, 
without  making  any  defense,  "and  besides  I  had  other 
reasons  for  going  into  the  navy." 

His  "other  reasons"  had  been  a  wish  to  emancipate 
himself  from  the  excessive  solicitude  of  his  mother,  who 
kept  him  tied  to  her  apron-strings  like  a  little  girl.  He 
was  impatient  to  do  something  for  himself,  to  become 
a  man  as  soon  as  possible.  But  he  said  nothing  of  all 
this,  and  to  escape  further  questions  devoured  three  or 
four  little  cakes  that  were  offered  him.  Before  taking 
them  he  removed  his  gloves  and  displayed  a  pair  of 
chapped  and  horny  hands. 

"Why — poor  Fred!"  cried  Jacqueline,  who  remarked 
them  in  a  moment,  "what  kind  of  almond  paste  do 
you  use?" 

Much  annoyed,  he  replied,  curtly:  "We  all  have  to 
row,  we  have  also  to  attend  to  the  machinery.  But  that 
is  only  while  we  are  cadets.  Of  course,  such  appren- 
ticeship is  very  hard.  After  that  we  shall  get  our  stripes 
and  be  ordered  on  foreign  service,  and  expect  promo- 
tion." 

"And  glory,"  said  Giselle,  who  found  courage  to 
speak. 

Fred  thanked  her  with  a  look  of  gratitude.  She,  at 
least,  understood  his  profession.  She  entered  into  his 
feelings  far  better  than  Jacqueline,  who  had  been  his 
first  confidante — Jacqueline,  to  whom  he  had  confided 


TH^O  BENTZON 

his  purposes,  his  ambition,  and  his  day-dreams.  He 
thought  Jacqueline  was  selfish.  She  seemed  to  care 
only  for  herself.  And  yet,  selfish  or  not  selfish,  she 
pleased  him  better  than  all  the  other  girls  he  knew — a 
thousand  times  more  than  gentle,  sweet  Giselle. 

"Ah,  glory,  of  course!"  repeated  Jacqueline.  "I 
understand  how  much  that  counts,  but  there  is  glory  of 
various  kinds,  and  I  know  the  kind  that  I  prefer,"  she 
added  in  a  tone  which  seemed  to  imply  that  it  was  not 
that  of  arms,  or  of  perilous  navigation.  "  We  all  know," 
she  went  on,  "that  not  every  man  can  have  genius,  but 
any  sailor  who  has  good  luck  can  get  to  be  an  admiral." 

"Let  us  hope  you  will  be  one  soon,  Monsieur  Fred," 
said  Dolly.  "You  will  have  well  deserved  it,  according 
to  the  way  you  have  distinguished  yourself  on  board 
the  Borda." 

This  induced  Fred  to  let  them  understand  something 
of  life  on  board  the  practice-ship ;  he  told  how  the  mas- 
ters who  resided  on  shore  ascended  by  a  ladder  to  the 
gun-deck,  which  had  been  turned  into  a  schoolroom; 
how  six  cadets  occupied  the  space  intended  for  each 
gun-carriage,  where  hammocks  hung  from  hooks 
served  them  instead  of  beds;  how  the  chapel  was  in 
a  closet  opened  only  on  Sundays.  He  described  the 
gymnastic  feats  in  the  rigging,  the  practice  in  gunnery, 
and  many  other  things  which,  had  they  been  well  de- 
scribed, would  have  been  interesting;  but  Fred  was 
only  a  poor  narrator.  The  conclusion  the  young  ladies 
seemed  to  reach  unanimously  after  hearing  his  descrip- 
tions, was  discouraging.  They  cried  almost  with  one 
voice: 

[20] 


"Think  of  any  woman  being  willing  to  marry  a 
sailor." 

"Why  not?"  asked  Giselle,  very  promptly. 

"Because,  what's  the  use  of  a  husband  who  is  always 
out  of  your  reach,  as  it  were,  between  water  and  sky  ? 
One  would  better  be  a  widow.  Widows,  at  any  rate, 
can  marry  again.  But  you,  Giselle,  don't  understand 
these  things.  You  are  going  to  be  a  nun." 

"Had  I  been  in  your  place,  Fred,"  said  Isabelle  Ray, 
"I  should  rather  have  gone  into  the  cavalry  school  at 
Saint  Cyr.  I  should  have  wanted  to  be  a  good  hunts- 
man, had  I  been  a  man,  and  they  say  naval  officers  are 
never  good  horsemen." 

Poor  Fred!  He  was  not  making  much  progress 
among  the  young  girls.  Almost  everything  people  talked 
about  outside  his  cadet  life  was  unknown  to  him ;  what 
he  could  talk  about  seemed  to  have  no  interest  for  any 
one,  unless  indeed  it  might  interest  Giselle,  who  was  an 
adept  in  the  art  of  sympathetic  listening,  never  having 
herself  anything  to  say. 

Besides  this,  Fred  was  by  no  means  at  his  ease  in 
talking  to  Jacqueline.  They  had  been  told  not  to 
tutoyer  each  other,  because  they  were  getting  too  old 
for  such  familiarity,  and  it  was  he,  and  not  she,  who 
remembered  this  prohibition.  Jacqueline  perceived 
this  after  a  while,  and  burst  out  laughing: 

"Tiens!  You  call  me  'you,'"  she  cried,  "and  I 
ought  not  to  say  'thou'  but  'you.'  I  forgot.  It  seems 
so  odd,  when  we  have  always  been  accustomed  to 
tutoyer  each  other." 

"One  ought  to  give  it   up  after  one's   first  com- 

[21] 


BENTZON 

munion,"  said  the  eldest  Mademoiselle  Wermant, 
sententiously.  "We  ceased  to  tutoyer  our  boy  cousins 
after  that.  I  am  told  nothing  annoys  a  husband  so 
much  as  to  see  these  little  familiarities  between  his 
wife  and  her  cousins  or  her  playmates." 

Giselle  looked  very  much  astonished  at  this  speech, 
and  her  air  of  disapproval  amused  Belle  and  Yvonne 
exceedingly.  They  began  presently  to  talk  of  the 
classes  in  which  they  were  considered  brilliant  pupils, 
and  of  their  success  in  compositions.  They  said  that 
sometimes  very  difficult  subjects  were  given  out.  A 
week  or  two  before,  each  had  had  to  compose  a  letter 
purporting  to  be  from  Dante  in  exile  to  a  friend  in  Flor- 
ence, describing  Paris  as  it  was  in  his  time,  especially 
the  manners  and  customs  of  its  universities,  ending 
by  some  allusion  to  the  state  of  matters  between  the 
Guelphs  and  the  Ghibellines. 

"  Good  heavens!  And  could  you  do  it  ? "  said  Giselle, 
whose  knowledge  of  history  was  limited  to  what  may 
be  found  in  school  abridgments. 

It  was  therefore  a  great  satisfaction  to  her  when  Fred 
declared  that  he  never  should  have  known  how  to  set 
about  it. 

"Oh!  papa  helped  me  a  little,"  said  Isabelle,  whose 
father  wrote  articles  much  appreciated  by  the  public  in 
the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes.  "  But  he  said  at  the  same 
time  that  it  was  horrid  to  give  such  crack-brained  stuff 
to  us  poor  girls.  Happily,  our  subject  this  week  is  much 
nicer.  We  have  to  make  comparisons  between  La 
Tristesse  d'Olympio,  Souvenir,  and  Le  Lac.  That  will 
be  something  interesting." 

[22] 


JACQUELINE 

"The  Tristesse  d'Olympio?"  repeated  Giselle,  in  a 
tone  of  interrogation. 

"You  know,  of  course,  that  it  is  Victor  Hugo's,"  said 
Mademoiselle  de  Wermant,  with  a  touch  of  pity. 

Giselle  answered  with  sincerity  and  humility,  "I 
only  knew  that  Le  Lac  was  by  Lamartine." 

"Well! — she  knows  that  much,"  whispered  Belle  to 
Yvonne — "just  that  much,  anyhow." 

While  they  were  whispering  and  laughing,  Jacque- 
line recited,  in  a  soft  voice,  and  with  feeling  that  did 
credit  to  her  instructor  in  elocution,  Mademoiselle 
X ,  of  the  Theatre  Frangais: 

Que  le  vent  qui  g^mit,  le  roseau  qui  soupire, 
Que  les  parfums  legers  de  ton  air  embaume", 
Que  tout  ce  qu'on  entend,  1'on  voit  ou  1'on  respire, 
Tout  disc:  Us  ont  aime. 

May  the  moan  of  the  wind,  the  green  rushes'  soft  sighing, 
The  fragrance  that  floats  in  the  air  you  have  moved, 
May  all  heard,  may  all  breathed,  may  all  seen,  seem  but  trying 
To  say:  They  have  loved. 

Then  she  added,  after  a  pause:  "Isn't  that  beau- 
tiful?" 

"How  dares  she  say  such  words?"  thought  Giselle, 
whose  sense  of  propriety  was  outraged  by  this  allusion 
to  love.  Fred,  too,  looked  askance  and  was  not  com- 
fortable, for  he  thought  that  Jacqueline  had  too  much 
assurance  for  her  age,  but  that,  after  all,  she  was  be- 
coming more  and  more  charming. 

At  that  moment  Belle  and  Yvonne  were  summoned, 

[23] 


TH^O  BENTZON 

and  they  departed,  full  of  an  intention  to  spread  every- 
where the  news  that  Giselle,  the  little  goose,  had  actu- 
ally known  that  Le  Lac  had  been  written  by  Lamartine. 
The  Benedictine  Sisters  positively  had  acquired  that 
much  knowledge. 

These  girls  were  not  the  only  persons  that  day  at  the 
reception  who  indulged  in  a  little  ill-natured  talk  after 
going  away.  Mesdames  d'Argy  and  de  Monredon,  on 
their  way  to  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain,  criticised 
Madame  de  Nailles  pretty  freely.  As  they  crossed  the 
Pare  Monceau  to  reach  their  carriage,  which  was  waiting 
for  them  on  the  Boulevard  Malesherbes,  they  made  the 
young  people,  Giselle  and  Fred,  walk  ahead,  that  they 
might  have  an  opportunity  of  expressing  themselves 
freely,  the  old  dowager  especially,  whose  toothless 
mouth  never  lost  an  opportunity  of  smirching  the  char- 
acter and  the  reputation  of  her  neighbors. 

"When  I  think  of  the  pains  my  poor  cousin  de  Nailles 
took  to  impress  upon  us  all  that  he  was  making  what  is 
called  a  mariage  raisonnable!  Well,  if  a  man  wants  a 
wife  who  is  going  to  set  up  her  own  notions,  her  own 
customs,  he  had  better  marry  a  poor  girl  without  for- 
tune! This  one  will  simply  ruin  him.  My  dear,  I  am 
continually  amazed  at  the  way  people  are  living  whose 
incomes  I  know  to  the  last  sou.  What  an  example  for 
Jacqueline!  Extravagance,  fast  living,  elegant  self- 
indulgence.  .  .  .  Did  you  observe  the  Baronne's  gown  ? 
—of  rough  woolen  stuff.  She  told  some  one  it  was  the 
last  creation  of  Doucet,  and  you  know  what  that  im- 
plies! His  serge  costs  more  than  one  of  our  velvet 
gowns.  .  .  .  And  then  her  artistic  tastes,  her  bric-d,- 


JACQUELINE 

brae !  Her  salon  looks  like  a  museum  or  a  bazaar.  I 
grant  you  it  makes  a  very  pretty  setting  for  her  and  all 
her  coquetries.  But  in  my  time  respectable  women 
were  contented  with  furniture  covered  with  red  or  yel- 
low silk  damask  furnished  by  their  upholsterers.  They 
didn't  go  about  trying  to  hunt  up  the  impossible.  On 
ne  cherche  pas  midi  a  quatorze  heures.  You  hold,  as  I 
do,  to  the  old  fashions,  though  you  are.  not  nearly  so 
old,  my  dear  Elise,  and  Jacqueline's  mother  thought  as 
we  think.  She  would  say  that  her  daughter  is  being 
very  badly  brought  up.  To  be  sure,  all  young  creatures 
nowadays  are  the  same.  Parents,  on  a  plea  of  tender- 
ness, keep  them  at  home,  where  they  get  spoiled  among 
grown  people,  when  they  had  much  better  have  the 
same  kind  of  education  that  has  succeeded  so  well  with 
Giselle;  bolts  on  the  garden-gates,  wholesome  seclu- 
sion, the  company  of  girls  of  their  own  age,  a  great  reg- 
ularity of  life,  nothing  which  stimulates  either  vanity  or 
imagination.  That  is  the  proper  way  to  bring  up  girls 
without  notions,  girls  who  will  let  themselves  be  mar- 
ried without  opposition,  and  are  satisfied  with  the  state 
of  life  to  which  Providence  may  be  pleased  to  call  them. 
For  my  part,  I  am  enchanted  with  the  ladies  in  the  Rue 
de  Monsieur,  and,  what  is  more,  Giselle  is  very  happy 
among  them;  to  hear  her  talk  you  would  suppose  she 
was  quite  ready  to  take  the  veil.  Of  course,  that  is  a 
mere  passing  fancy.  But  fancies  of  that  sort  are  never 
dangerous,  they  have  nothing  in  common  with  those 
that  are  passing  nowadays  through  most  girls'  brains. 
Having  'a  day!' — what  a  foolish  notion:  And  then  to 
let  little  girls  take  part  in  it,  even  in  a  corner  of  the 

[25] 


THEO  BENTZON 

room.  I'll  wager  that,  though  her  skirts  are  half  way  up 
her  legs,  and  her  hair  is  dressed  like  a  baby's,  that  that 
little  de  Nailles  is  less  of  a  child  than  my  granddaughter, 
who  has  been  brought  up  by  the  Benedictines.  You 
say  that  she  probably  does  not  understand  all  that  goes 
on  around  her.  Perhaps  not,  but  she  breathes  it  in. 
It's  poison — that's  what  it  is!" 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  truth  in  this  harsh  picture, 
although  it  contained  considerable  exaggeration. 

At  this  moment,  when  Madame  de  Monredon  was 
sitting  in  judgment  on  the  education  given  to  the  little 
girls  brought  up  in  the  world,  and  on  the  ruinous 
extravagance  of  their  young  stepmothers,  Madame 
de  Nailles  and  Jacqueline — their  last  visitors  having 
departed — were  resting  themselves,  leaning  tenderly 
against  each  other,  on  a  sofa.  Jacqueline's  head  lay 
on  her  mother's  lap.  Her  mother,  without  speaking, 
was  stroking  the  girl's  dark  hair.  Jacqueline,  too,  was 
silent,  but  from  time  to  time  she  kissed  the  slender  fin- 
gers sparkling  with  rings,  as  they  came  within  reach  of 
her  lips. 

When  M.  de  Nailles,  about  dinner-time,  surprised 
them  thus,  he  said,  with  satisfaction,  as  he  had  often 
said  before,  that  it  would  be  hard  to  find  a  home  scene 
more  charming,  as  they  sat  under  the  light  of  a  lamp 
with  a  pink  shade. 

That  the  stepmother  and  stepdaughter  adored  each 
other  was  beyond  a  doubt.  And  yet,  had  any  one  been 
able  to  look  into  their  hearts  at  that  moment,  he  would 
have  discovered  with  surprise  that  each  was  thinking 
of  something  that  she  could  not  confide  to  the  other. 

[26] 


JACQUELINE 

Both  were  thinking  of  the  same  person.  Madame  de 
Nailles  was  occupied  with  recollections,  Jacqueline 
with  hope.  She  was  absorbed  in  Machiavellian  strat- 
egy, how  to  realize  a  hope  that  had  been  formed  that 
very  afternoon. 

"What  are  you  both  thinking  of,  sitting  there  so  qui- 
etly?" said  the  Baron,  stooping  over  them  and  kissing 
first  his  wife  and  then  his  child. 

"About  nothing,"  said  the  wife,  with  the  most  inno- 
cent of  smiles. 

"Oh!  I  am  thinking,"  said  Jacqueline,  "of  many 
things.  I  have  a  secret,  papa,  that  I  want  to  tell  you 
when  we  are  quite  alone.  Don't  be  jealous,  dear 
mamma.  It  is  something  about  a  surprise — Oh,  a 
lovely  surprise  for  you." 

"Saint  Clotilde's  day — my  fete-day  is  still  far  off," 
said  Madame  de  Nailles,  refastening,  mother-like,  the 
ribbon  that  was  intended  to  keep  in  order  the  rough 
ripples  of  Jacqueline's  unruly  hair,  "and  usually  your 
whisperings  begin  as  the  day  approaches  my  fete." 

"Oh,  dear! — you  will  go  and  guess  it!"  cried  Jacque- 
line in  alarm.  "Oh!  don't  guess  it,  please." 

"Well!  I  will  do  my  best  not  to  guess,  then,"  said 
the  good-natured  Clotilde,  with  a  laugh. 

"And  I  assure  you,  for  my  part,  that  I  am  discretion 
itself,"  said  M.  de  Nailles. 

So  saying,  he  drew  his  wife's  arm  within  his  own, 
and  the  three  passed  gayly  together  into  the  dining- 
room. 


[27] 


CHAPTER  II 

A  CLEVER  STEPMOTHER 

s 

"O  man  took  more  pleasure  than  M. 
de  Nailles  in  finding  himself  in  his 
own  home — partly,  perhaps,  because 
circumstances  compelled  him  to  be 
very  little  there.  The  post  of  dep- 
uty in  the  French  Chamber  is  no 
sinecure.  He  was  not  often  an  ora- 
tor from  the  tribune,  but  he  was 
absorbed  by  work  in  the  committees — "  Harnessed  to 
a  lot  of  bothering  reports,"  as  Jacqueline  used  to  say 
to  him.  He  had  barely  any  time  to  give  to  those  im- 
portant duties  of  his  position,  by  which,  as  is  well 
known,  members  of  the  Corps  Legislatij  are  shamelessly 
harassed  by  constituents,  who,  on  pretence  that  they 
have  helped  to  place  the  interests  of  their  district  in 
your  hands,  feel  authorized  to  worry  you  with  personal 
matters,  such  as  the  choice  of  agricultural  machines, 
or  a  place  to  be  found  for  a  wet-nurse. 

Besides  his  public  duties,  M.  de  Nailles  was  occupied 
by  financial  speculations — operations  that  were  no 
doubt  made  necessary  by  the  style  of  living  commented 
on  by  his  cousin,  Madame  de  Monredon,  who  was  as 
stingy  as  she  was  bitter  of  tongue.  The  elegance  that 
she  found  fault  with  was,  however,  very  far  from  being 

[28] 


JACQUELINE 

great  when  compared  with  the  luxury  of  the  present 
day.  Of  course,  the  Baronne  had  to  have  her  horses, 
her  opera-box,  her  fashionable  frocks.  To  supply 
these  very  moderate  needs,  which,  however,  she  never 
insisted  upon,  being,  so  far  as  words  went,  most  simple 
in  her  tastes,  M.  de  Nailles,  who  had  not  the  tempera- 
ment which  makes  men  find  pleasure  in  hard  work, 
became  more  and  more  fatigued.  His  days  were 
passed  in  the  Chamber,  but  he  never  neglected  his 
interest  on  the  Bourse;  in  the  evening  he  accompanied 
his  young  wife  into  society,  which,  she  always  declared, 
she  did  not  care  for,  but  which  had  claims  upon  her 
nevertheless.  It  was  therefore  not  surprising  that  M. 
de  Nailles' s  face  showed  traces  of  the  habitual  fatigue 
that  was  fast  aging  him ;  his  tall,  thin  form  had  acquired 
a  slight  stoop;  though  only  fifty  he  was  evidently  in 
his  declining  years.  He  had  once  been  a  man  of  pleas- 
ure, it  was  said,  before  he  entered  politics.  He  had 
married  his  first  wife  late  in  life.  She  was  a  prudent 
woman  who  feared  to  expose  him  to  temptation,  and 
had  kept  him  as  far  as  possible  away  from  Paris. 

In  the  country,  having  nothing  to  do,  he  became 
interested  in  agriculture,  and  in  looking  after  his 
estate  at  Grandchaux.  He  had  been  made  a  member 
of  the  Conseil  General,  when  unfortunately  death  too 
early  deprived  him  of  the  wise  and  gentle  counsellor 
for  whom  he  felt,  possibly  not  a  very  lively  love,  but 
certainly  a  high  esteem  and  affection.  After  he  be- 
came a  widower  he  met  in  the  Pyrenees,  where,  as  he 
was  whiling  away  the  time  of  seclusion  proper  after  his 
j  a  young  lady  who  appeared  to  him  exactly  the 
[29! 


THfiO  BENTZON 

person  he  needed  to  bring  up  his  little  daughter — be- 
cause she  was  extremely  attractive  to  himself.  Of 
course  M.  de  Nailles  found  plenty  of  other  reasons  for 
his  choice,  which  he  gave  to  the  world  and  to  himself 
to  justify  his  second  marriage — but  this  was  the  true 
reason  and  the  only  one.  His  friends,  however,  all  of 
whom  had  urged  on  him  the  desirability  of  taking  an- 
other wife,  in  consideration  of  the  age  of  Jacqueline, 
raised  many  objections  as  soon  as  he  announced  his 
intention  of  espousing  Mademoiselle  Clotilde  Hecker, 
eldest  daughter  of  a  man  who  had  been,  at  one  time, 
a  prefect  under  the  Empire,  but  who  had  been  turned 
out  of  office  by  the  Republican  Government.  He  had 
a  large  family  and  many  debts;  but  M.  de  Nailles  had 
some  answer  always  ready  for  the  objections  of  his 
family  and  friends.  He  was  convinced  that  Mademoi- 
selle Hecker,  having  no  fortune,  would  be  less  exacting 
than  other  women  and  more  disposed  to  lead  a  quiet 
life. 

She  had  been  almost  a  mother  to  her  own  young 
brothers  and  sisters,  which  was  a  pledge  for  mother- 
liness  toward  Jacqueline,  etc.,  etc.  Nevertheless,  had 
she  not  had  eyes  as  blue  as  those  of  the  beauties  paint- 
ed by  Greuze,  plenty  of  audacious  wit,  and  a  delicate 
complexion,  due  to  her  Alsatian  origin — had  she  not 
possessed  a  slender  waist  and  a  lovely  figure,  he  might 
have  asked  himself  why  a  young  lady  who,  in  winter, 
studied  painting  with  the  commendable  intention  of 
making  her  own  living  by  art,  passed  the  summers  at 
all  the  watering-places  of  France  and  those  of  neigh- 
boring countries,  without  any  perceptible  motive. 

[30] 


JACQUELINE 

But,  thanks  to  the  bandage  love  ties  over  the  eyes  of 
men,  he  saw  only  what  Mademoiselle  Clotilde  was 
willing  that  he  should  see.  In  the  first  place  he  saw 
the  great  desirability  of  a  talent  for  painting  which, 
unlike  music — so  often  dangerous  to  married  happi- 
ness— gives  women  who  cultivate  it  sedentary  interests. 
And  then  he  was  attracted  by  the  model  daughter's 
filial  piety  as  he  beheld  her  taking  care  of  her  mother, 
who  was  the  victim  of  an  incurable  disorder,  which  re- 
quired her  by  turns  to  reside  at  Cauterets,  or  some- 
times at  Ems,  sometimes  at  Aix  in  Savoy,  and  some- 
times even  at  Trouville.  The  poor  girl  had  assured 
him  that  she  asked  no  happier  lot  than  to  live  eight 
months  of  the  year  in  the  country,  where  she  would 
devote  herself  to  teaching  Jacqueline,  for  whom  at  first 
sight  she  had  taken  a  violent  fancy  (the  attraction  in- 
deed was  mutual).  She  assured  him  she  would  teach 
her  all  she  knew  herself,  and  her  diplomas  proved  how 
well  educated  she  had  been. 

Indeed,  it  seemed  as  if  only  prejudice  could  find  any 
objection  to  so  prudent  and  reasonable  a  marriage,  r 
marriage  contracted  principally  for  the  good  of  Jacque 
line. 

It  came  to  pass,  however,  that  the  air  of  Grand 
chaux,  which  is  situated  in  the  most  unhealthful  part 
of  Limouzin,  proved  particularly  hurtful  to  the  new 
Madame  de  Nailles.  She  could  not  live  a  month  on 
her  husband's  property  without  falling  into  a  state  of 
health  which  she  attributed  to  malaria.  M.  de  Nailles 
was  at  first  much  concerned  about  the  condition  of 
things  which  seemed  likely  to  upset  all  his  plans  for 


THtfO  BENTZON 

retirement  in  the  country,  but,  his  wife  having  per- 
suaded him  that  his  position  in  the  Conseil  Central  was 
only  a  stepping-stone  to  a  seat  in  the  Corps  Legislatif, 
where  his  place  ought  to  be,  he  presented  himself  to  the 
electors  as  a  candidate,  and  was  almost  unanimously 
elected  deputy,  the  conservative  vote  being  still  all- 
powerful  in  that  part  of  the  country. 

His  wife,  it  was  said,  had  shown  rare  zeal  and  activity 
at  the  time  of  the  election,  employing  in  her  husband's 
service  all  those  little  arts  which  enable  her  sex  to  suc- 
ceed in  politics,  as  well  as  in  everything  else  they  set 
their  minds  to.  No  lady  ever  more  completely  turned 
the  heads  of  country  electors.  It  was  really  Madame 
de  Nailles  who  took  her  seat  hi  the  Left  Centre  of  the 
Chamber,  in  the  person  of  her  husband. 

After  that  she  returned  to  Limouzin  only  long 
enough  to  keep  up  her  popularity,  though,  with  touch- 
ing resignation,  she  frequently  offered  to  spend  the 
summer  at  Grandchaux,  even  if  the  consequences 
should  be  her  death,  like  that  of  Pia  in  the  Maremma. 
Her  husband,  of  course,  peremptorily  set  his  face 
against  such  self-sacrifice. 

The  facilities  for  Jacqueline's  education  were  in- 
creased by  their  settling  down  as  residents  of  Paris. 
Madame  de  Nailles  superintended  the  instruction  of 
her  stepdaughter  with  motherly  solicitude,  seconded, 
however,  by  a  promeneuse,  or  walking-governess,  which 
left  her  free  to  fulfil  her  own  engagements  in  the  after- 
noons. The  walking-governess  is  a  singular  modern 
institution,  intended  to  supply  the  place  of  the  too  often 
inconvenient  daily  governess  of  former  times.  The 

[32] 


JACQUELINE 

necessary  qualifications  of  such  a  person  are  that  she 
should  have  sturdy  legs,  and  such  knowledge  of  some 
foreign  language  as  will  enable  her  during  their  walks 
to  converse  in  it  with  her  pupil.  Fraulein  Schult,  who 
came  from  one  of  the  German  cantons  of  Switzerland, 
was  an  ideal  promeneuse.  She  never  was  tired  and 
she  was  well-informed.  The  number  of  things  that 
could  be  learned  from  her  during  a  walk  was  abso- 
lutely incredible. 

Madame  de  Nailles,  therefore,  after  a  time,  gave 
up  to  her,  not  without  apparent  regret,  the  duty  of 
accompanying  Jacqueline,  while  she  herself  fulfilled 
those  duties  to  society  which  the  most  devoted  of 
mothers  can  not  wholly  avoid ;  but  the  stepmother  and 
stepdaughter  were  always  to  be  seen  together  at  mass 
at  one  o'clock;  together  they  attended  the  Cours  (that 
system  of  classes  now  so  much  in  vogue)  and  also  the 
weekly  instruction  given  in  the  catechism;  and  if  Ma- 
dame de  Nailles,  when,  at  night,  she  told  her  husband 
all  she  had  been  doing  for  Jacqueline  during  the  day 
(she  never  made  any  merit  of  her  zeal  for  the  child's 
welfare),  added:  "I  left  Jacqueline  in  this  place  or 
in  that,  where  Mademoiselle  Schult  was  to  call  for 
her,"  M.  de  Nailles  showed  no  disposition  to  ask 
questions,  for  he  well  understood  that  his  wife  felt  a 
certain  delicacy  in  telling  him  that  she  had  been  to  pay 
a  brief  visit  to  her  own  relatives,  who,  she  knew,  were 
distasteful  to  him.  He  had,  indeed,  very  soon  dis- 
cerned in  them  a  love  of  intrigue,  a  desire  to  get  the 
most  they  could  out  of  him,  and  a  disagreeable  pro- 
pensity to  parasitism.  With  the  consummate  tact  she 
3  [33] 


BENTZON 

showed  in  everything  she  did,  Madame  de  Nailles  kept 
her  own  family  in  the  background,  though  she  never 
neglected  them.  She  was  always  doing  them  little 
services,  but  she  knew  well  that  there  were  certain 
things  about  them  that  could  not  but  be  disagreeable 
to  her  husband.  M.  de  Nailles  knew  all  this,  too,  and 
respected  his  wife's  affection  for  her  family.  He  sel- 
dom asked  her  where  she  had  been  during  the  day. 
If  he  had  she  would  have  answered,  with  a  sigh:  "I 
went  to  see  my  mother  while  Jacqueline  was  taking 
her  dancing-lesson,  and  before  she  went  to  her  singing- 
master." 

That  she  was  passionately  attached  to  Jacqueline 
was  proved  by  the  affection  the  little  girl  conceived  for 
her.  "  We  two  are  friends,"  both  mother  and  daughter 
often  said  of  each  other.  Even  Modeste,  old  Modeste, 
who  had  been  at  first  indignant  at  seeing  a  stranger 
take  the  place  of  her  dead  mistress,  could  not  but 
acknowledge  that  the  usurper  was  no  ordinary  step- 
mother. It  might  have  been  truly  said  that  Madame  de 
Nailles  had  never  scolded  Jacqueline,  and  that  Jacque- 
line had  never  done  anything  contrary  to  the  wishes 
of  Madame  de  Nailles.  When  anything  went  wrong 
it  was  Fraulein  Schult  who  was  reproached  first;  if 
there  was  any  difficulty  in  the  management  of  Jacque- 
line, she  alone  received  complaints.  In  the  eyes  of  the 
"two  friends,"  Fraulein  Schult  was  somehow  to  be 
blamed  for  everything  that  went  wrong  in  the  family, 
but  between  themselves  an  observer  might  have  watched 
in  vain  for  the  smallest  cloud.  Madame  de  Nailles, 
when  she  was  first  married,  could  not  make  enough  of 

[34] 


JACQUELINE 

the  very  ugly  yet  attractive  little  girl,  whose  tight  black 
curls  and  gypsy  face  made  an  admirable  contrast  to 
her  own  more  delicate  style  of  beauty,  which  was  that 
of  a  blonde.  She  caressed  Jacqueline,  she  dressed  her 
up,  she  took  her  about  with  her  like  a  little  dog,  and 
overwhelmed  her  with  demonstrations  of  affection, 
which  served  not  only  to  show  off  her  own  graceful 
attitudes,  but  gave  spectators  a  high  opinion  of  her 
kindness  of  heart. 

When  from  time  to  time  some  one,  envious  of  her 
happiness,  pitied  her  for  being  childless,  Madame  de 
Nailles  would  say:  "What  do  you  mean?  I  have  one 
daughter;  she  is  enough  for  me." 

It  is  a  pity  children  grow  so  fast,  and  that  little  girls 
who  were  once  ugly  sometimes  develop  into  beautiful 
young  women.  The  time  came  when  the  model  step- 
mother began  to  wish  that  Jacqueline  would  only  de- 
velop morally,  intellectually,  and  not  physically.  But 
she  showed  nothing  of  this  in  her  behavior,  and  re- 
plied to  any  compliments  addressed  to  her  concerning 
Jacqueline  with  as  much  maternal  modesty  as  if  the 
dawning  loveliness  of  her  stepdaughter  had  been  due 
to  herself. 

"Her  nose  is  rather  too  long — dori't  you  think  so? 
And  she  will  always  be  too  dark,  I  fear."  But  she  used 
always  to  add,  "She  is  good  enough  and  pretty  enough 
to  pass  muster  with  any  critic — poor  little  pussy-cat!" 
She  became  desirous  to  discover  some  tendency  to  ill- 
health  in  the  plant  that  was  too  ready  to  bloom  into 
beauty  and  perfection.  She  would  have  liked  to  be 
able  to  assert  that  Jacqueline's  health  would  not  per- 

[35] 


TH6O  BENTZON 

mit  her  to  sit  up  late  at  night,  that  fashionable  hours 
would  be  injurious  to  her,  that  it  would  be  undesirable 
to  let  her  go  into  society  as  long  as  she  could  be  kept 
from  doing  so.  But  Jacqueline  persisted  in  nevei  be- 
ing ill,  and  was  calculating  with  impatience  how  many 
years  it  would  be  before  she  could  go  to  her  first  ball 
—three  or  four  possibly.  Was  Madame  de  Nailles  in 
three  or  four  years  to  be  reduced  to  the  position  of  a 
chaperon  ?  The  young  stepmother  thought  of  such  a 
possibility  with  horror.  Her  anxiety  on  this  subject, 
however,  as  well  as  several  other  anxieties,  was  so  well 
concealed  that  even  her  husband  suspected  nothing. 

The  complete  sympathy  which  existed  between  the 
two  beings  he  most  loved  made  M.  de  Nailles  very 
happy.  He  had  but  one  thing  to  complain  of  in  his 
wife,  and  that  thing  was  very  small.  Since  she  had 
married  she  had  completely  given  up  her  painting. 
He  had  no  knowledge  of  art  himself,  and  had  therefore 
given  her  credit  for  great  artistic  capacity.  The  fact 
was  that  in  her  days  of  poverty  she  had  never  been 
artist  enough  to  make  a  living,  and  now  that  she  was 
rich  she  felt  inclined  to  laugh  at  her  own  limited  ability. 
Her  practice  of  art,  she  said,  had  only  served  to  give 
her  a  knowledge  of  outline  and  of  color;  a  knowledge 
she  utilized  in  her  dress  and  in  the  smallest  details  of 
house  decoration  and  furniture.  Everything  she  wore, 
everything  that  surrounded  her,  was  arranged  to  per- 
fection. She  had  a  genius  for  decoration,  for  furniture, 
for  trifles,  and  brought  her  artistic  knowledge  to  bear 
even  on  the  tying  of  a  ribbon,  or  the  arrangement  of  a 
nosegay. 

[36) 


JACQUELINE 

"This  is  all  I  retain  of  your  lessons,"  she  said  some- 
times to  Hubert  Marien,  when  recalling  to  his  memory 
the  days  in  which  she  sought  his  advice  as  to  how  to 
prepare  herself  for  the  "struggle  for  life." 

This  phrase  was  amusing  when  it  proceeded  from 
her  lips.  What! — "struggle  for  life"  with  those  little 
delicate,  soft,  childlike  hands?  How  absurd!  She 
laughed  at  the  idea  now,  and  all  those  who  heard  her 
laughed  with  her;  Marien  laughed  more  than  any  one. 
He,  who  had  befriended  her  in  her  days  of  adversity, 
seemed  to  retain  for  the  Baroness  in  her  prosperity  the 
same  respectful  and  discreet  devotion  he  had  shown 
her  as  Mademoiselle  Hecker.  He  had  sent  a  wonder- 
ful portrait  of  her,  as  the  wife  of  M.  de  Nailles,  to  the 
Salon — a  portrait  that  the  richer  electors  of  Grand- 
chaux,  who  had  voted  for  her  husband  and  who  could 
afford  to  travel,  gazed  at  with  satisfaction,  congratulat- 
ing themselves  that  they  had  a  deputy  who  had  married 
so  pretty  a  woman.  It  even  seemed  as  if  the  beauty 
of  Madame  de  Nailles  belonged  in  some  sort  to  the 
arrondissement,  so  proud  were  those  who  lived  there 
of  having  their  share  in  her  charms. 

Another  portrait — that  of  M.  de  Nailles  himself — was 
sent  down  to  Limouzin  from  Paris,  and  all  the  peas- 
ants in  the  country  round  were  invited  to  come  and 
look  at  it.  That  also  produced  a  very  favorable  im- 
pression on  the  rustic  public,  and  added  to  the  popu- 
larity of  their  deputy.  Never  had  the  proprietor  of 
Grandchaux  looked  so  grave,  so  dignified,  so  majestic, 
so  absorbed  in  deep  reflection,  as  he  looked  standing 
beside  a  table  covered  with  papers — papers,  no  doubt, 

[37] 


TfflfiO  BENTZON 

all  having  relation  to  local  interests,  important  to  the 
public  and  to  individuals.  It  was  the  very  figure  of  a 
statesman  destined  to  high  dignities.  No  one  who 
gazed  on  such  a  deputy  could  doubt  that  one  day  he 
would  be  in  the  ministry. 

It  was  by  such  real  services  that  Marien  endeavored 
to  repay  the  friendship  and  the  kindness  always  await- 
ing him  in  the  small  house  in  the  Pare  Monceau,  where 
we  have  just  seen  Jacqueline  eagerly  offering  him  some 
spiced  cakes.  To  complete  what  seemed  due  to  the 
household  there  only  remained  to  paint  the  curiously 
expressive  features  of  the  girl  at  whom  he  had  been 
looking  that  very  day  with  more  than  ordinary  atten- 
tion. Once  already,  when  Jacqueline  was  hardly  out 
of  baby-clothes,  the  great  painter  had  made  an  admira- 
ble sketch  of  her  tousled  head,  a  sketch  in  which  she 
looked  like  a  little  imp  of  darkness,  and  this  sketch 
Madame  de  Nailles  took  pains  should  always  be  seen, 
but  it  bore  no  resemblance  to  the  slender  young  girl 
who  was  on  the  eve  of  becoming,  whatever  might  be 
done  to  arrest  her  development,  a  beautiful  young 
woman.  Jacqueline  disliked  to  look  at  that  picture. 
It  seemed  to  do  her  an  injury  by  associating  her  with 
her  nursery.  Probably  that  was  the  reason  why  she 
had  been  so  pleased  to  hear  Hubert  Marien  say  unex- 
pectedly that  she  was  now  ready  for  the  portrait  which 
had  been  often  joked  about,  every  one  putting  it  off 
to  the  period,  always  remote,  when  "the  may-pole" 
should  have  developed  a  pretty  face  and  figure. 

And  now  she  was  disquieted  lest  the  idea  of  taking 
her  picture,  which  she  felt  was  very  flattering,  should 

[38] 


JACQUELINE 

remain  inoperative  in  the  painter's  brain.  She  wanted 
it  carried  out  at  once,  as  soon  as  possible.  Jacqueline 
detested  waiting,  and  for  some  reason,  which  she  never 
talked  about,  the  years  that  seemed  so  short  and  swift 
to  her  stepmother  seemed  to  her  to  be  terribly  long. 
Marien  himself  had  said:  "There  is  a  great  interval 
between  a  dream  and  its  execution."  These  words 
had  thrown  cold  water  on  her  sudden  joy.  She  wanted 
to  force  him  to  keep  his  promise — to  paint  her  portrait 
immediately.  How  to  do  this  was  the  problem  her 
little  head,  reclining  on  Madame  de  Nailles's  lap  after 
the  departure  of  their  visitors,  had  been  endeavoring 
to  solve. 

Should  she  communicate  her  wish  to  her  indulgent 
stepmother,  who  for  the  most  part  willed  whatever 
she  wished  her  to  do?  A  vague  instinct — an  instinct 
of  some  mysterious  danger — warned  her  that  in  this 
case  her  father  would  be  her  better  confidant. 


[39] 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  FRIEND  OF  THE  FAMILY 

WEEK  later  M.  de  Nailles  said  to 
Hubert  Marien,  as  they  were  smok- 
ing together  in  the  conservatory,  af- 
ter the  usual  little  family  dinner  on 
Wednesday  was  over: 

"Well! — when  would  you  like 
Jacqueline  to  come  to  sit  for  her 
picture?" 

"What!  are  you  thinking  about  that?"  cried  the 
painter,  letting  his  cigar  fall  in  his  astonishment. 

"She  told  me  that  you  had  proposed  to  make  her 
portrait." 

"The  sly  little  minx!"  thought  Marien.  "I  only 
spoke  of  painting  it  some  day,"  he  said,  with  embarrass- 
ment. 

"Well!  she  would  like  that  'some  day'  to  be  now, 
and  she  has  a  reason  for  wanting  it  at  once,  which,  I 
hope,  will  decide  you  to  gratify  her.  The  third  of 
June  is  Sainte-Clotilde's  day,  and  she  has  taken  it  into 
her  head  that  she  would  like  to  give  her  mamma  a 
magnificent  present — a  present  that,  of  course,  we  shall 
unite  to  give  her.  For  some  time  past  I  have  been 
thinking  of  asking  you  to  paint  a  portrait  of  my  daugh- 
ter," continued  M.  de  Nailles,  who  had  in  fact  had  no 


JACQUELINE 

more  wish  for  the  portrait  than  he  had  had  to  be  a 
deputy,  until  it  had  been  put  into  his  head.  But  the 
women  of  his  household,  little  or  big,  could  persuade 
him  into  anything. 

"I  really  don't  think  I  have  the  time  now,"  said 
Marien. 

"Bah! — you  have  whole  two  months  before  you. 
What  can  absorb  you  so  entirely  ?  I  know  you  have 
your  pictures  ready  for  the  Salon." 

"Yes — of  course — of  course — but  are  you  sure  that 
Madame  de  Nailles  would  approve  of  it?" 

"She  will  approve  whatever  I  sanction,"  said  M.  de 
Nailles,  with  as  much  assurance  as  if  he  had  been 
master  in  his  domestic  circle;  "besides,  we  don't  in- 
tend to  ask  her.  It  is  to  be  a  surprise.  Jacqueline  is 
looking  forward  to  the  pleasure  it  will  give  her.  There 
is  something  very  touching  to  me  in  the  affection  of 
that  little  thing  for — for  her  mother."  M.  de  Nailles 
usually  hesitated  a  moment  before  saying  that  word, 
as  if  he  were  afraid  of  transferring  something  still  be- 
longing to  his  dead  wife  to  another — that  dead  wife 
he  so  seldom  remembered  in  any  other  way.  He 
added,  "She  is  so  eager  to  give  her  pleasure." 

Marien  shook  his  head  with  an  air  of  uncertainty. 

"Are  you  sure  that  such  a  portrait  would  be  really 
acceptable  to  Madame  de  Nailles?" 

"How  can  you  doubt  it?"  said  the  Baron,  with  much 
astonishment.  "A  portrait  of  her  daughter! — done  by 
a  great  master  ?  However,  of  course,  if  we  are  putting 
you  to  any  inconvenience — if  you  would  rather  not 
undertake  it,  you  had  better  say  so." 


TH^O  BENTZON 

"No — of  course  I  will  do  it,  if  you  wish  it,"  said 
Marien,  quickly,  who,  although  he  was  anxious  to  do 
nothing  to  displease  Madame  de  Nailles,  was  equally 
desirous  to  stand  well  with  her  husband.  "Yet  I  own 
that  all  the  mystery  that  must  attend  on  what  you  pro- 
pose may  put  me  to  some  embarrassment.  How  do 
you  expect  Jacqueline  will  be  able  to  conceal " 

"Oh!  easily  enough.  She  walks  out  every  day  with 
Mademoiselle  Schult.  Well,  Mademoiselle  Schult  will 
bring  her  to  your  studio  instead  of  taking  her  to  the 
Champs  Elysees — or  to  walk  elsewhere." 

"But  every  day  there  will  be  concealments,  false- 
hoods, deceptions.  I  think  Madame  de  Nailles  might 
prefer  to  be  asked  for  her  permission." 

"Ask  for  her  permission  when  I  have  given  mine? 
Ah,  fa!  my  dear  Marien,  am  I,  or  am  I  not,  the  father 
of  Jacqueline  ?  I  take  upon  myself  the  whole  responsi- 
bility." 

"Then  there  is  nothing  more  to  be  said.  But  do 
you  think  that  Jacqueline  will  keep  the  secret  till  the 
picture  is  done?" 

"You  don't  know  little  girls;  they  are  all  too  glad  to 
have  something  of  which  they  can  make  a  mystery." 

"When  would  you  like  us  to  begin?" 

Marien  had  by  this  time  said  to  himself  that  for  him 
to  hold  out  longer  might  seem  strange  to  M.  de  Nailles. 
Besides,  the  matter,  though  in  some  respects  it  gave 
him  cause  for  anxiety,  really  excited  an  interest  in  him. 
For  some  time  past,  though  he  had  long  known  women 
and  knew  very  little  of  mere  girls,  he  had  had  his  sus- 
picions that  a  drama  was  being  enacted  in  Jacqueline's 

[42] 


JACQUELINE 

heart,  a  drama  of  which  he  himself  was  the  hero.  He 
amused  himself  by  watching  it,  though  he  did  nothing 
to  promote  it.  He  was  an  artist  and  a  keen  and  pene- 
trating observer;  he  employed  psychology  in  the  ser- 
vice of  his  art,  and  probably  to  that  might  have  been 
attributed  the  individual  character  of  his  portraits — a 
quality  to  be  found  in  an  equal  degree  only  in  those  of 
Ricard. 

What  particularly  interested  him  at  this  moment  was 
the  assumed  indifference  of  Jacqueline  while  her  father 
was  conducting  the  negotiation  which  was  of  her  sug- 
gestion. When  they  returned  to  the  salon  after  smok- 
ing she  pretended  not  to  be  the  least  anxious  to  know 
the  result  of  their  conversation.  She  sat  sewing  near 
the  lamp,  giving  all  her  attention  to  the  piece  of  lace 
on  which  she  was  working.  Her  father  made  her  a 
sign  which  meant  "He  consents,"  and  then  Marien 
saw  that  the  needle  in  her  fingers  trembled,  and  a  slight 
color  rose  in  her  face — but  that  was  all.  She  did  not 
say  a  word.  He  could  not  know  that  for  a  week  past 
she  had  gone  to  church  every  time  she  took  a  walk,  and 
had  offered  a  prayer  and  a  candle  that  her  wish  might 
be  granted.  How  very  anxious  and  excited  she  had 
been  all  that  week !  The  famous  composition  of  which 
she  had  spoken  to  Giselle,  the  subject  of  which  had  so 
astonished  the  young  girl  brought  up  by  the  Bene*- 
dictine  nuns,  felt  the  inspiration  of  her  emotion  and 
excitement.  Jacqueline  was  in  a  frame  of  mind  which 
made  reading  those  three  masterpieces  by  three  great 
poets,  and  pondering  the  meaning  of  their  words,  very 
dangerous.  The  poems  did  not  affect  her  with  the 

[433 


BENTZON 

melancholy  they  inspire  in  those  who  have  "lived  and 
loved,"  but  she  was  attracted  by  their  tenderness  and 
their  passion.  Certain  lines  she  applied  to  herself — 
certain  others  to  another  person.  The  very  word  love 
so  often  repeated  in  the  verses  sent  a  thrill  through  all 
her  frame.  She  aspired  to  taste  those  "intoxicating 
moments,"  those  "swift  delights,"  those  "sublime 
ecstasies,"  those  "divine  transports" — all  the  beautiful 
things,  in  short,  of  which  the  poems  spoke,  and  which 
were  as  yet  unknown  to  her.  How  could  she  know 
them?  How  could  she,  after  an  experience  of  sorrow, 
which  seemed  to  her  to  be  itself  enviable,  retain  such 
sweet  remembrances  as  the  poets  described  ? 

"Let  us  love — love  each  other!  Let  us  hasten  to 
enjoy  the  passing  hour!"  so  sang  the  poet  of  Le  Lac. 
That  passing  hour  of  bliss  she  thought  she  had  already 
enjoyed.  She  was  sure  that  for  a  long  time  past  she 
had  loved.  When  had  that  love  begun?  She  hardly 
knew.  But  it  would  last  as  long  as  she  might  live. 
One  loves  but  once. 

These  personal  emotions,  mingling  with  the  literary 
enchantments  of  the  poets,  caused  Jacqueline's  pen  to 
fly  over  her  paper  without  effort,  and  she  produced  a 
composition  so  far  superior  to  anything  she  usually 
wrote  that  it  left  the  lucubrations  of  her  companions 
far  behind.  M.  Regis,  the  professor,  said  so  to  the 
class.  He  was  enthusiastic  about  it,  and  greatly  sur- 
prised. Belle,  who  had  been  always  first  in  this  kind 
of  composition,  was  far  behind  Jacqueline,  and  was  so 
greatly  annoyed  at  her  defeat  that  she  would  not  speak 
to  her  for  a  week.  On  the  other  hand  Colette  and 

[44] 


JACQUELINE 

Dolly,  who  never  had  aspired  to  literary  triumphs, 
were  moved  to  tears  when  the  "Study  on  the  compara- 
tive merits  of  Three  Poems,  Le  Lac,  Souvenir,  and 
La  Tristesse  d'Olympio"  signed  "  Mademoiselle  de 
Nailles,"  received  the  honor  of  being  read  aloud.  This 
reading  was  followed  by  a  murmur  of  applause,  mingled 
with  some  hisses  which  may  have  proceeded  from  the 
viper  of  jealousy.  But  the  paper  made  a  sensation 
like  that  of  some  new  scandal.  Mothers  and  govern- 
esses whispered  together.  Many  thought  that  that 
little  de  Nailles  had  expressed  sentiments  not  proper  at 
her  age.  Some  came  to  the  conclusion  that  M.  Regis 
chose  subjects  for  composition  not  suited  to  young 
girls.  A  committee  waited  on  the  unlucky  professor 
to  beg  him  to  be  more  prudent  for  the  future.  He 
even  lost,  in  consequence  of  Jacqueline's  success,  one 
of  his  pupils  (the  most  stupid  one,  be  it  said,  in  the 
class),  whose  mother  took  her  away,  saying,  with  indig- 
nation, "One  might  as  well  risk  the  things  they  are 
teaching  at  the  Sorbonne!" 

This  literary  incident  greatly  alarmed  Madame  de 
Nailles!  Of  all  things  she  dreaded  that  her  daughter 
should  early  become  dreamy  and  romantic.  But  on 
this  point  Jacqueline's  behavior  was  calculated  to  re- 
assure her.  She  laughed  about  her  composition,  she 
frolicked  like  a  six-year-old  child;  without  any  ap- 
parent cause,  she  grew  gayer  and  gayer  as  the  time 
approached  for  the  execution  of  her  plot. 

The  evening  before  the  day  fixed  on  for  the  first 
sitting,  Modeste,  the  elderly  maid  of  the  first  Madame 
de  NaiUes,  who  loved  her  daughterx  whom  she  had 

Us] 


TH^O  BENTZON 

known  from  the  moment  of  her  birth,  as  if  she  had  been 
her  own  foster-child,  arrived  at  the  studio  of  Hubert 
Marien  in  the  Rue  de  Prony,  bearing  a  box  which 
she  said  contained  all  that  would  be  wanted  by  Made- 
moiselle. Marien  had  the  curiosity  to  look  into  it. 
It  contained  a  robe  of  oriental  muslin,  light  as  air, 
diaphanous — and  so  dazzlingly  white  that  he  re- 
marked : 

"She  will  look  like  a  fly  in  milk  in  that  thing." 

"Oh!"  replied  Modeste,  with  a  laugh  of  satisfac- 
tion, "it  is  very  becoming  to  her.  I  altered  it  to  fit 
her,  for  it  is  one  of  Madame's  dresses.  Mademoiselle 
has  nothing  but  short  skirts,  and  she  wanted  to  be 
painted  as  a  young  lady." 

"With  the  approval  of  her  papa?" 

"Yes,  of  course,  Monsieur,  Monsieur  le  Baron  gave 
his  consent.  But  for  that  I  certainly  should  not  have 
minded  what  the  child  said  to  me." 

"Then,"  replied  Marien,  "I  can  say  nothing,"  and 
he  made  ready  for  his  sitter  the  next  day,  by  turning 
two  or  three  studies  of  the  nude,  which  might  have 
shocked  her,  with  their  faces  to  the  wall. 

A  foreign  language  can  not  be  properly  acquired 
unless  the  learner  has  great  opportunities  for  conver- 
sation. It  therefore  became  a  fixed  habit  with  Frau- 
lein  Schult  and  Jacqueline  to  keep  up  a  lively  stream 
of  talk  during  their  walks,  and  their  discourse  was  not 
always  about  the  rain,  the  fine  weather,  the  things  dis- 
played in  the  shop-windows,  nor  the  historical  mon- 
uments of  Paris,  which  they  visited  conscientiously. 

[46] 


JACQUELINE 

What  is  near  the  heart  is  sure  to  come  eventually  to 
the  surface  in  continual  t&e-a-tHe  intercourse.  Frau- 
lein  Schult,  who  was  of  a  sentimental  temperament,  in 
spite  of  her  outward  resemblance  to  a  grenadier,  was 
very  willing  to  allow  her  companion  to  draw  from  her 
confessions  relating  to  an  intended  husband,  who  was 
awaiting  her  at  Berne,  and  whose  letters,  both  in  prose 
and  verse,  were  her  comfort  in  her  exile.  This  future 
husband  was  an  apothecary,  and  the  idea  that  he 
pounded  out  verses  as  he  pounded  his  drugs  in  a 
mortar,  and  rolled  out  rhymes  with  his  pills,  some- 
times inclined  Jacqueline  to  laugh,  but  she  listened 
patiently  to  the  plaintive  outpourings  of  her  prome- 
neuse,  because  she  wished  to  acquire  a  right  to  recip- 
rocate by  a  few  half-confidences  of  her  own.  In  her 
turn,  therefore,  she  confided  to  Fraulein  Schult — 
moved  much  as  Midas  had  been,  when  for  his  own 
relief  he  whispered  to  the  reeds — that  if  she  were 
sometimes  idle,  inattentive,  "away  off  in  the  moon," 
as  her  instructors  told  her  by  way  of  reproach,  it  was 
caused  by  one  ever-present  idea,  which,  ever  since  she 
had  been  able  to  think  or  feel,  had  taken  possession  of 
her  inmost  being — the  idea  of  being  loved  some  day 
by  somebody  as  she  herself  loved. 

"Was  that  somebody  a  boy  of  her  own  age?" 
Oh,  fie ! — mere  boys — still  schoolboys — could  only  be 
looked  upon  as  playfellows  or  comrades.  Of  course 
she  considered  Fred — Fred,  for  example! — Frederic 
d'Argy — as  a  brother,  but  how  different  he  was  from 
her  ideal.  Even  young  men  of  fashion — she  had  seen 
some  of  them  on  Tuesdays — Raoul  Wermant,  the  one 

[47] 


TH^O  BENTZON 

who  so  distinguished  himself  as  a  leader  in  the  german, 
or  Yvonne's  brother,  the  officer  of  chasseurs,  who  had 
gained  the  prize  for  horsemanship,  and  others  besides 
these — seemed  to  her  very  commonplace  by  compari- 
son. No! — he  whom  she  loved  was  a  man  in  the 
prime  of  life,  well  known  to  fame.  She  didn't  care  if 
he  had  a  few  white  hairs. 

"Is  he  a  person  of  rank?"  asked  Fraulein  Schult, 
much  puzzled. 

"Oh!  if  you -mean  of  noble  birth,  no,  not  at  all. 
But  fame  is  so  superior  to  birth!  There  are  more 
ways  than  one  of  acquiring  an  illustrious  name,  and 
the  name  that  a  man  makes  for  himself  is  the  noblest 
of  all!" 

Then  Jacqueline  begged  Fraulein  Schult  to  imagine 
something  like  the  passion  of  Bettina  for  Goethe — 
Fraulein  Schult  having  told  her  that  story  simply  with 
a  view  of  interesting  her  in  German  conversation — 
only  the  great  man  whose  name  she  would  not  tell  was 
not  nearly  so  old  as  Goethe,  and  she  herself  was  much 
less  childish  than  Bettina.  But,  above  all,  it  was  his 
genius  that  attracted  her — though  his  face,  too,  was  very 
pleasing.  And  she  went  on  to  describe  his  appearance 
— till  suddenly  she  stopped,  burning  with  indignation; 
for  she  perceived  that,  notwithstanding  the  minuteness 
of  her  description,  what  she  said  was  conveying  an 
idea  of  ugliness  and  not  one  of  the  manly  beauty  she 
intended  to  portray. 

"He  is  not  like  that  at  all,"  she  cried.  "He  has 
such  a  beautiful  smile — a  smile  like  no  other  I  ever 

saw.  And  his  talk  is  so  amusing — and "  here 

[48] 


JACQUELINE 

Jacqueline  lowered  her  voice  as  if  afraid  to  be  over- 
heard, "and  I  do  think — I  think,  after  all,  he  does 
love  me — just  a  little." 

On  what  could  she  have  founded  such  a  notion? 
Good  heaven! — it  was  on  something  that  had  at  first 
deeply  grieved  her,  a  sudden  coldness  and  reserve  that 
had  come  over  his  manner  to  her.  Not  long  before  she 
had  read  an  English  novel  (no  others  were  allowed  to 
come  into  her  hands).  It  was  rather  a  stupid  book, 
with  many  tedious  passages,  but  in  it  she  was  told  how 
the  high-minded  hero,  not  being  able,  for  grave  reasons, 
to  aspire  to  the  hand  of  the  heroine,  had  taken  refuge 
in  an  icy  coldness,  much  as  it  cost  him,  and  as  soon 
as  possible  had  gone  away.  English  novels  are  nothing 
if  not  moral. 

This  story,  not  otherwise  interesting,  threw  a  gleam 
of  light  on  what,  up  to  that  time,  had  been  inexplicable 
to  Jacqueline.  He  was  above  all  things  a  man  of 
honor.  He  must  have  perceived  that  his  presence 
troubled  her.  He  had  possibly  seen  her  when  she 
stole  a  half-burned  cigarette  which  he  had  left  upon 
the  table,  a  prize  she  had  laid  up  with  other  relics — 
an  old  glove  that  he  had  lost,  a  bunch  of  violets  he 
had  gathered  for  her  in  the  country.  Yes !  When  she 
came  to  think  of  it,  she  felt  certain  he  must  have  seen 
her  furtively  lay  her  hand  upon  that  cigarette;  that 
cigarette  had  compromised  her.  Then  it  was  he  must 
have  said  to  himself  that  it  was  due  to  her  parents,  who 
had  always  shown  him  kindness,  to  surmount  an  at- 
tachment that  could  come  to  nothing — nothing  at 
present.  But  when  she  should  be  old  enough  for  him 
4  [49] 


TH^O  BENTZON 

to  ask  her  hand,  would  he  dare?  Might  he  not 
rashly  think  himself  too  old  ?  She  must  seek  out  some 
way  to  give  him  encouragement,  to  give  him  to  under- 
stand that  she  was  not,  after  all,  so  far — so  very  far 
from  being  a  young  lady — old  enough  to  be  married. 
How  difficult  it  all  was!  All  the  more  difficult  because 
she  was  exceedingly  afraid  of  him. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  Fraulein  Schult,  after  listen- 
ing day  after  day  to  such  recitals,  with  all  the  alterna- 
tions of  hope  and  of  discouragement  which  succeed- 
ed one  another  in  the  mind  of  her  precocious  pupil, 
guessed,  the  moment  that  Jacqueline  came  to  her,  in  a 
transport  of  joy,  to  ask  her  to  go  with  her  to  the  Rue 
de  Prony,  that  the  hero  of  the  mysterious  love-story 
was  no  other  than  Hubert  Marien. 

As  soon  as  she  understood  this,  she  perceived  that 
she  should  be  placed  in  a  very  false  position.  But  she 
thought  to  herself  there  was  no  possible  way  of  getting 
out  of  it,  without  giving  a  great  deal  too  much  impor- 
tance to  a  very  innocent  piece  of  childish  folly;  she 
therefore  determined  to  say  nothing  about  it,  but  to 
keep  a  strict  watch  in  the  mean  time.  After  all,  M. 
de  Nailles  himself  had  given  her  her  orders.  She  was 
to  accompany  Jacqueline,  and  do  her  crochet- work  in 
one  corner  of  the  studio  as  long  as  the  sitting  lasted. 

All  she  could  do  was  to  obey. 

"And  above  all  not  a  word  to  mamma,  whatever 
she  may  ask  you,"  said  Jacqueline. 

And  her  father  added,  with  a  laugh,  "Not  a  word." 
Fraulein  Schult  felt  that  she  knew  what  was  expected 
of  her.  She  was  naturally  compliant,  and  above  all 

[50] 


JACQUELINE 

things  she  was  anxious  to  get  paid  for  as  many  hours  of 
her  time  as  possible — much  like  the  driver  of  a  fiacre, 
because  the  more  money  she  could  make  the  sooner  she 
would  be  in  a  position  to  espouse  her  apothecary. 

When  Jacqueline,  escorted  by  her  Swiss  duenna, 
penetrated  almost  furtively  into  Marien's  studio,  her 
heart  beat  as  if  she  had  a  consciousness  of  doing  some- 
thing very  wrong.  In  truth,  she  had  pictured  to  herself 
so  many  impossible  scenes  beforehand,  had  rehearsed 
the  probable  questions  and  answers  in  so  many  strange 
dialogues,  had  soothed  her  fancy  with  so  many  extrava- 
gant ideas,  that  she  had  at  last  created,  bit  by  bit,  a 
situation  very  different  from  the  reality,  and  then  threw 
herself  into  it,  body  and  soul. 

The  look  of  the  atelier — the  first  she  had  ever  been  in 
in  her  life — disappointed  her.  She  had  expected  to 
behold  a  gorgeous  collection  of  bric-a-brac,  according 
to  accounts  she  had  heard  of  the  studios  of  several 
celebrated  masters.  That  of  Marien  was  remarkable 
only  for  its  vast  dimensions  and  its  abundance  of  light. 
Studies  and  sketches  hung  on  the  walls,  were  piled  one 
over  another  in  corners,  were  scattered  about  every- 
where, attesting  the  incessant  industry  of  the  artist, 
whose  devotion  to  his  calling  was  so  great  that  his  own 
work  never  satisfied  him. 

Only  some  interesting  casts  from  antique  bronzes, 
brought  out  into  strong  relief  by  a  background  of 
tapestry,  adorned  this  lofty  hall,  which  had  none  of 
that  confusion  of  decorative  objects,  in  the  midst  of 
which  some  modern  artists  seem  to  pose  themselves 
rather  than  to  labor. 


BENTZON 

A  fresh  canvas  stood  upon  an  easel,  all  ready  for  the 
sitter. 

"If  you  please,  we  will  lose  no  time,"  said  Marien, 
rather  roughly,  seeing  that  Jacqueline  was  about  to 
explore  all  the  corners  of  his  apartment,  and  that  at 
that  moment,  with  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  she  was 
drawing  aside  the  covering  he  had  cast  over  his  Death 
of  Savonarola,  the  picture  he  was  then  at  work  upon. 
It  was  not  the  least  of  his  grudges  against  Jacqueline 
for  insisting  on  having  her  portrait  painted  that  it 
obliged  him  to  lay  aside  this  really  great  work,  that  he 
might  paint  a  likeness. 

"In  ten  minutes  I  shall  be  ready,"  said  Jacqueline, 
obediently  taking  off  her  hat. 

"Why  can't  you  stay  as  you  are?  That  jacket  suits 
you.  Let  us  begin  immediately." 

"No,  indeed !  What  a  horrid  suggestion ! "  she  cried, 
running  up  to  the  box  which  was  half  open.  ' '  You'll  see 
how  much  better  I  can  look  in  a  moment  or  two." 

"I  put  no  faith  in  your  fancies  about  your  toilette. 
I  certainly  don't  promise  to  accept  them." 

Nevertheless,  he  left  her  alone  with  her  Bernese 
governess,  saying:  "Call  me  when  you  are  ready,  I 
shall  be  in  the  next  room." 

A  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  more,  passed,  and  no 
signal  had  been  given.  Marien,  getting  out  of  patience, 
knocked  on  the  door. 

"Have  you  nearly  done  beautifying  yourself?"  he 
asked,  in  a  tone  of  irony. 

"Just  done,"  replied  a  low  voice,  which  trembled. 

He  went  in,  and  to  the  great  amusement  of  Fraulein 

[52] 


JACQUELINE 

Schult,  who  was  not  too  preoccupied  to  notice  every- 
thing, he  stood  confounded — petrified,  as  a  man  might 
be  by  some  work  of  magic.  What  had  become  of 
Jacqueline?  What  had  she  in  common  with  that 
dazzling  vision?  Had  she  been  touched  by  some 
fairy's  wand?  Or,  to  accomplish  such  a  transforma- 
tion, had  nothing  been  needed  but  the  substitution  of 
a  woman's  dress,  fitted  to  her  person,  for  the  short 
skirts  and  loose  waists  cut  in  a  boyish  fashion,  which 
had  made  the  little  girl  seem  hardly  to  belong  to  any 
sex,  an  indefinite  being,  condemned,  as  it  were,  to 
childishness?  How  tall,  and  slender,  and  graceful  she 
looked  in  that  long  gown,  the  folds  of  which  fell  from 
her  waist  in  flowing  lines,  a  waist  as  round  and  flexible 
as  the  branch  of  a  willow;  what  elegance  there  was  in 
her  modest  corsage,  which  displayed  for  the  first  time 
her  lovely  arms  and  neck,  half  afraid  of  their  own 
exposure.  She  still  was  not  robust,  but  the  leanness 
that  she  herself  had  owned  to  was  not  brought  into 
prominence  by  any  bone  or  angle,  her  dark  skin  was 
soft  and  polished,  the  color  of  ancient  statues  which 
have  been  slightly  tinted  yellow  by  exposure  to  the  sun. 
This  girl,  a  Parisienne,  seemed  formed  on  the  model 
of  a  figurine  of  Tanagra.  Greek,  too,  was  her  small 
head,  crowned  only  by  her  usual  braid  of  hair,  which 
she  had  simply  gathered  up  so  as  to  show  the  nape  of 
her  neck,  which  was  perhaps  the  most  beautiful  thing 
in  all  her  beautiful  person. 

"Well! — what  do  you  think  of  me ?"  she  said  to  Mar- 
ien,  with  a  searching  glance  to  see  how  she  impressed 
him — a  glance  strangely  like  that  of  a  grown  woman. 

[53] 


THtfO  BENTZON 

"Well! — I  can't  get  over  it! — Why  have  you  be- 
dizened yourself  in  that  fashion?"  he  asked,  with  an 
affectation  of  brusquerie,  as  he  tried  to  recover  his 
power  of  speech. 

"Then  you  don't  like  me?"  she  murmured,  in  a  low 
voice.  Tears  came  into  her  eyes;  her  lips  trembled. 

"I  don't  see  Jacqueline." 

"No — I  should  hope  not — but  I  am  better  than 
Jacqueline,  am  I  not?" 

"I  am  accustomed  to  Jacqueline.  This  new  ac- 
quaintance disconcerts  me.  Give  me  time  to  get  used 
to  her.  But  once  again  let  me  ask,  what  possessed 
you  to  disguise  yourself?" 

"I  am  not  disguised.  I  am  disguised  when  I  am 
forced  to  wear  those  things,  which  do  not  suit  me," 
said  Jacqueline,  pointing  to  her  gray  jacket  and  plaid 
skirt  which  were  hung  up  on  a  hat-rack.  "  Oh,  I  know 
why  mamma  keeps  me  like  that — she  is  afraid  I  should 
get  too  fond  of  dress  before  I  have  finished  my  educa- 
tion, and  that  my  mind  may  be  diverted  from  serious 
subjects.  It  is  no  doubt  all  intended  for  my  good, 
but  I  should  not  lose  much  time  if  I  turned  up  my 
hair  like  this,  and  what  harm  could  there  be  in  length- 
ening my  skirts  an  inch  or  two?  My  picture  will 
show  her  that  I  am  improved  by  such  little  changes, 
and  perhaps  it  will  induce  her  to  let  me  go  to  the  Bal 
Blanc  that  Madame  d'Etaples  is  going  to  give  on 
Yvonne's  birthday.  Mamma  declined  for  me,  saying 
I  was  not  fit  to  wear  a  low-necked  corsage,  but  you  see 
she  was  mistaken." 

"Rather,"  said  Marien,  smiling  in  spite  of  himself. 

[54] 


JACQUELINE 

"Yes — wasn't  she?"  she  went  on,  delighted  at  his 
look.  "Of  course,  I  have  bones,  but  they  don't  show 
like  the  great  hollows  under  the  collar-bones  that 
Dolly  shows,  for  instance — but  Dolly  looks  stouter 
than  I  because  her  face  is  so  round.  Well!  Dolly  is 
going  to  Madame  d'Etaples's  ball." 

"I  grant,"  said  Marien,  devoting  all  his  attention  to 
the  preparation  of  his  palette,  that  she  might  not  see 
him  laugh,  "I  grant  that  you  have  bones — yes,  many 
bones — but  they  are  not  much  seen  because  they  are 
too  well  placed  to  be  obtrusive." 

"I  am  glad  of  that,"  said  Jacqueline,  delighted. 

"But  let  me  ask  you  one  question.  Where  did  you 
pick  up  that  queer  gown  ?  It  seems  to  me  that  I  have 
seen  it  somewhere." 

"No  doubt  you  have,"  replied  Jacqueline,  who  had 
quite  recovered  from  her  first  shock,  and  was  now 
ready  to  talk;  "it  is  the  dress  mamma  had  made  some 
time  ago  when  she  acted  in  a  comedy." 

"So  I  thought,"  growled  Marien,  biting  his  lips. 

The  dress  recalled  to  his  mind  many  personal  recol- 
lections, and  for  one  instant  he  paused.  Madame  de 
Nailles,  among  other  talents,  possessed  that  of  amateur 
acting.  On  one  occasion,  several  years  before,  she 
had  asked  his  advice  concerning  what  dress  she  should 
wear  in  a  little  play  of  Scribe's,  which  was  to  be  given 
at  the  house  of  Madame  d'Avrigny — the  house  in  all 
Paris  most  addicted  to  private  theatricals.  This  re- 
production of  a  forgotten  play,  with  its  characters  at- 
tired in  the  costume  of  the  period  in  which  the  play 
was  placed,  had  had  great  success,  a  success  due 

[55] 


TH^O  BENTZON 

largely  to  the  excellence  of  the  costumes.  In  the  comic 
parts  the  dressing  had  been  purposely  exaggerated, 
but  Madame  de  Nailles,  who  played  the  part  of  a 
great  coquette,  would  not  have  been  dressed  in  char- 
acter had  she  not  tried  to  make  herself  as  bewitching 
as  possible. 

Marien  had  shown  her  pictures  of  the  beauties  of 
1840,  painted  by  Dubufe,  and  she  had  decided  on  a 
white  gauze  embroidered  with  gold,  in  which,  on  that 
memorable  evening,  she  had  captured  more  than  one 
heart,  and  which  had  had  its  influence  on  the  life  and 
destiny  of  Marien.  This  might  have  been  seen  in  the 
vague  glance  of  indignation  with  which  he  now  re- 
garded it. 

"Never,"  he  thought,  "was  it  half  so  pretty  when 
worn  by  Madame  de  Nailles  as  by  her  stepdaughter." 

Jacqueline  meantime  went  on  talking. 

"You  must  know — I  was  rather  perplexed  what  to 
do — almost  all  mamma's  gowns  made  me  look  horribly 
too  old;  Modeste  tried  them  on  me  one  after  another. 
We  burst  out  laughing,  they  seemed  so  absurd.  And 
then  we  were  afraid  mamma  might  chance  to  want  the 
one  I  took.  This  old  thing  it  was  not  likely  she  would 
ask  for.  She  had  worn  it  only  once,  and  then  put  it 
away.  The  gauze  is  a  little  yellow  from  lying  by, 
don't  you  think  so?  But  we  asked  my  father,  who 
said  it  was  all  right,  that  I  should  look  less  dark  in  it, 
and  that  the  dress  was  of  no  particular  date,  which 
was  always  an  advantage.  These  Grecian  dresses  are 
always  in  the  fashion.  Ah!  four  years  ago  mamma 
was  much  more  slender  than  she  is  now.  But  we  have 

[56} 


JACQUELINE 

taken  it  in — oh!  we  took  it  in  a  great  deal  under  the 
arms,  but  we  had  to  let  it  down.  Would  you  believe 
it  ? — I  am  taller  than  mamma — but  you  can  hardly  see 
the  seam,  it  is  concealed  by  the  gold  embroidery." 

"No  matter  for  that.  We  shall  only  take  a  three- 
quarters'  length,"  said  Marien. 

"Oh,  what  a  pity!  No  one  will  see  I  have  a  long 
skirt  on.  But  I  shall  be  decolletee,  at  any  rate.  I  shall 
wear  a  comb.  No  one  would  know  the  picture  for  me 
— nobody! — You  yourself  hardly  knew  me — did  you?" 

"Not  at  first  sight.    You  are  much  altered." 

"Mamma  will  be  amazed,"  said  Jacqueline,  clasping 
her  hands.  "It  was  a  good  idea!" 

"Amazed,  I  do  not  doubt,"  said  Marien,  somewhat 
anxiously.  "But  suppose  we  take  our  pose — Stay! — 
keep  just  as  you  are.  Your  hands  before  you,  hanging 
down — so.  Your  fingers  loosely  clasped — that's  it. 
Turn  your  head  a  little.  What  a  lovely  neck! — how 
well  her  head  is  set  upon  it!"  he  cried,  involuntarily. 

Jacqueline  glanced  at  Fraulein  Schult,  who  was  at 
the  farther  end  of  the  studio,  busy  with  her  crochet. 
"You  see,"  said  the  look,  "that  he  has  found  out  I  am 
pretty — that  I  am  worth  something— all  the  rest  will 
soon  happen." 

And,  while  Marien  was  sketching  in  the  graceful 
figure  that  posed  before  him,  Jacqueline's  imagination 
was  investing  it  with  the  white  robe  of  a  bride.  She 
had  a  vision  of  the  painter  growing  more  and  more 
resolved  to  ask  her  hand  in  marriage  as  the  portrait 
grew  beneath  his  brush;  of  course,  her  father  would 
say  at  first:  "You  are  mad — you  must  wait.  I  shall 

[57] 


BENTZON 

not  let  Jacqueline  marry  till  she  is  seventeen."  But 
long  engagements,  she  had  heard,  had  great  delights, 
though  in  France  they  are  not  the  fashion.  At  last, 
after  being  long  entreated,  she  was  sure  that  M.  and 
Madame  de  Nailles  would  end  by  giving  their  consent 
— they  were  so  fond  of  Marien.  Standing  there, 
dreaming  this  dream,  which  gave  her  face  an  expres- 
sion of  extreme  happiness,  Jacqueline  made  a  most 
admirable  model.  She  had  not  felt  in  the  least  fatigued 
when  Marien  at  last  said  to  her,  apologetically:  "You 
must  be  ready  to  drop — I  forgot  you  were  not  made  of 
wood;  we  will  go  on  to-morrow." 

Jacqueline,  having  put  on  her  gray  jacket  with  as 
much  contempt  for  it  as  Cinderella  may  have  felt  for 
her  rags  after  her  successes  at  the  ball,  departed  with 
the  delightful  sensation  of  having  made  a  bold  first 
step,  and  being  eager  to  make  another. 

Thus  it  was  with  all  her  sittings,  though  some  left 
her  anxious  and  unhappy,  as  for  instance  when  Marien, 
absorbed  in  his  work,  had  not  paused,  except  to  say, 
"Turn  your  head  a  little — you  are  losing  the  pose" 
Or  else,  "Now  you  may  rest  for  to-day." 

On  such  occasions  she  would  watch  him  anxiously 
as  he  painted  swiftly,  his  brush  making  great  splashes 
on  the  canvas,  his  dark  features  wearing  a  scowl,  his 
chin  on  his  breast,  a  deep  frown  upon  his  forehead, 
on  which  the  hair  grew  low.  It  was  evident  that  at 
such  times  he  had  no  thought  of  pleasing  her.  Little 
did  she  suspect  that  he  was  saying  to  himself:  "Fool 
that  I  am ! — A  man  of  my  age  to  take  pleasure  in  seeing 
that  little  head  filled  with  follies  and  fancies  of  which 

[58] 


JACQUELINE 

I  am  the  object.  But  can  one — let  one  be  ever  so  old— 
always  act  or  think  reasonably  ?  You  are  mad,  Marien ! 
A  child  of  fourteen!  Bah! — they  make  her  out  to  be 
fourteen — but  she  is  fifteen — and  was  not  that  the  age 
of  Juliet  ?  But,  you  old  gray  beard,  you  are  not  Romeo ! 
— Ma  foil  I  am  in  a  pretty  scrape.  It  ought  to  teach 
me  not  to  play  with  fire  at  my  age." 

Those  words  "at  my  age"  were  the  refrain  to  all  the 
reflections  of  Hubert  Marien.  He  had  seen  enough  in 
his  relations  with  women  to  have  no  doubt  about 
Jacqueline's  feelings,  of  which  indeed  he  had  watched 
the  rise  and  progress  from  the  time  she  had  first  begun 
to  conceive  a  passion  for  him,  with  a  mixture  of  amuse- 
ment and  conceit.  The  most  cautious  of  men  are  not 
insensible  to  flattery,  whatever  form  it  may  take.  To 
be  fallen  in  love  with  by  a  child  was  no  doubt  absurd 
—a  thing  to  be  laughed  at — but  Jacqueline  seemed  no 
longer  a  child,  since  for  him  she  had  uncovered  her 
young  shoulders  and  arranged  her  dark  hair  on  her 
head  with  the  effect  of  a  queenly  diadem.  Not  only 
had  her  dawning  loveliness  been  revealed  to  him  alone, 
but  to  him  it  seemed  that  he  had  helped  to  make  her 
lovely.  The  innocent  tenderness  she  felt  for  him  had 
accomplished  this  miracle.  Why  should  he  refuse  to 
inhale  an  incense  so  pure,  so  genuine  ?  How  could  he 
help  being  sensible  to  its  fragrance  ?  Would  it  not  be 
in  his  power  to  put  an  end  to  the  whole  affair  whenever 
he  pleased?  But  till  then  might  he  not  bask  in  it,  as 
one  does  in  a  warm  ray  of  spring  sunshine?  He  put 
aside,  therefore,  all  scruples.  And  when  he  did  this 
Jacqueline  with  rapture  saw  the  painter's  face,  no 

[59] 


BENTZON 

longer  with  its  scowl,  but  softened  by  some  secret 
influence,  the  lines  smoothed  from  his  brow,  while  the 
beautiful  smile  which  had  fascinated  so  many  women 
passed  like  a  ray  of  light  over  his  expressive  mobile 
features;  then  she  would  once  more  fancy  that  he  was 
making  love  to  her,  and  indeed  he  said  many  things, 
which,  without  rousing  in  himself  any  scruples  of  con- 
science, or  alarming  the  propriety  of  Fraulein  Schult, 
were  well  calculated  to  delude  a  girl  who  had  had  no 
experience,  and  who  was  charmed  by  the  illusions  of  a 
love-affair,  as  she  might  have  been  by  a  fairy-story. 

It  is  true  that  sometimes,  when  he  fancied  he  might 
have  gone  too  far,  Marien  would  grow  sarcastic,  or 
stay  silent  for  a  time.  But  this  change  of  behavior 
produced  on  Jacqueline  only  the  same  effect  that  the 
caprices  of  a  coquette  produce  upon  a  very  young 
admirer.  She  grew  anxious,  she  wanted  to  find  out 
the  reason,  and  finally  found  some  explanation  or  ex- 
cuse for  him  that  coincided  with  her  fancies. 

The  thing  that  reassured  her  in  such  cases  was  her 
picture.  If  she  could  seem  to  him  as  beautiful  as  he 
had  made  her  look  on  canvas  she  was  sure  that  he  must 
love  her. 

"Is  this  really  I?  Are  you  sure?"  she  said  to 
Marien  with  a  laugh  of  delight.  "It  seems  to  me 
that  you  have  made  me  too  handsome." 

"I  have  hardly  done  you  justice,"  he  replied.  "It 
is  not  my  fault  if  you  are  more  beautiful  than  seems 
natural,  like  the  beauties  in  the  keepsakes.  By  the 
way,  I  hold  those  English  things  in  horror.  What  do 
you  say  of  them?" 

[60] 


JACQUELINE 

Then  Jacqueline  undertook  to  defend  the  keepsake 
beauties  with  animation,  declaring  that  no  one  but  a 
hopelessly  realistic  painter  would  refuse  to  do  justice 
to  those  charming  monstrosities. 

"Good  heavens!"  thought  Marien,  "if  she  is  adding 
a  quick  wit  to  her  other  charms— that  will  put  the 
finishing  stroke  to  me." 

When  the  portrait  was  sufficiently  advanced,  M.  de 
Nailles  came  to  the  studio  to  judge  of  the  likeness. 
He  was  delighted:  "Only,  my  friend,  I  think,"  he  cried 
to  Marien,  endeavoring  to  soften  his  one  objection  to 
the  picture,  "that  you  have  given  her  a  look — how  can 
I  put  it? — an  expression  very  charming  no  doubt,  but 
which  is  not  that  of  a  child  of  her  age.  You  know  what 
I  mean.  It  is  something  tender — intense — profound, 
too  feminine.  It  may  come  to  her  some  day,  perhaps 
—but  hitherto  Jacqueline's  expression  has  been  gener- 
ally that  of  a  merry,  mischievous  child." 

"Oh,  papa!"  cried  the  young  girl,  stung  by  the 
insult. 

"You  may  possibly  be  right,"  Marien  hastened  to 
reply,  "it  was  probably  the  fatigue  of  posing  that  gave 
her  that  expression." 

"Oh!"  repeated  Jacqueline,  more  shocked  than  ever. 

"I  can  alter  it,"  said  the  painter,  much  amused  by 
her  extreme  despair.  But  Marien  thought  that  Jacque- 
line had  not  in  the  least  that  precocious  air  which  her 
father  attributed  to  her,  when  standing  before  him  she 
gave  herself  up  to  thoughts  the  current  of  which  he 
followed  easily,  watching  on  her  candid  face  its  changes 
of  expression.  How  could  he  have  painted  her  other 

[61] 


THtiO  BENTZON 

than  she  appeared  to  him?  Was  what  he  saw  an 
apparition — or  was  it  a  work  of  magic  ? 

Several  times  during  the  sittings  M.  de  Nailles  made 
his  appearance  in  the  studio,  and  after  greatly  praising 
the  work,  persisted  in  his  objection  that  it  made  Jacque- 
line too  old.  But  since  the  painter  saw  her  thus  they 
must  accept  his  judgment.  It  was  no  doubt  an  effect 
of  the  grown-up  costume  that  she  had  had  a  fancy  to 
put  on. 

"After  all,"  he  said  to  Jacqueline,  "it  is  of  not  much 
consequence ;  you  will  grow  up  to  it  some  of  these  days. 
And  I  pay  you  my  compliments  in  advance  on  your 
appearance  in  the  future." 

She  felt  like  choking  with  rage.  "Oh!  is  it  right," 
she  thought,  "for  parents  to  persist  in  keeping  a  young 
girl  forever  in  her  cradle,  so  to  speak?" 


[62] 


CHAPTER  IV 

A  DANGEROUS  MODEL 

'IME  passed  too  quickly  to  please 
Jacqueline.  Her  portrait  was  fin- 
ished at  last,  notwithstanding  the  wil- 
lingness Marien  had  shown — or  so  it 
seemed  to  her — to  retouch  it  unnec- 
essarily that  she  might  again  and 
again  come  back  to  his  atelier.  But 
it  was  done  at  last.  She  glided  into 
that  dear  atelier  for  the  last  time,  her  heart  big  with 
regret,  with  no  hope  that  she  would  ever  again  put  on 
the  fairy  robe  which  had,  she  thought,  transfigured  her 
till  she  was  no  longer  little  Jacqueline. 

"I  want  you  only  for  one  moment,  and  I  need  only 
your  face,"  said  Marien.  "I  want  to  change — a  line— 
I  hardly  know  what  to  call  it,  at  the  corner  of  your 
mouth.  Your  father  is  right ;  your  mouth  is  too  grave. 
Think  of  something  amusing — of  the  Bal  Blanc  at 
Madame  d'Etaples,  or  merely,  if  you  like,  of  the  satis- 
faction it  will  give  you  to  be  done  with  these  everlasting 
sittings — to  be  no  longer  obliged  to  bear  the  burden  of 
a  secret,  in  short  to  get  rid  of  your  portrait-painter." 

She  made  him  no  answer,  not  daring  to  trust  her 
voice. 

"Come!    now,  on  the  contrary  you  are  tightening 

[63] 


THfeO  BENTZON 

your  lips,"  said  Marien,  continuing  to  play  with  her  as 
a  cat  plays  with  a  mouse — provided  there  ever  was  a 
cat  who,  while  playing  with  its  mouse,  had  no  intention 
of  crunching  it.  "You  are  not  merry,  you  are  sad. 
That  is  not  at  all  becoming  to  you." 

"Why  do  you  attribute  to  me  your  own  thoughts? 
It  is  you  who  will  be  glad  to  get  rid  of  all  this  trouble." 

Fraulein  Schult,  who,  while  patiently  adding  stitch 
after  stitch  to  the  long  strip  of  her  crochet- work,  was 
often  much  amused  by  the  dialogues  between  sitter 
and  painter,  pricked  up  her  ears  to  hear  what  a  French- 
man would  say  to  what  was  evidently  intended  to  pro- 
voke a  compliment. 

"On  the  contrary,  I  shall  miss  you  very  much,"  said 
Marien,  quite  simply;  "I  have  grown  accustomed  to 
see  you  here.  You  have  become  one  of  the  familiar 
objects  of  my  studio.  Your  absence  will  create  a  void." 

"About  as  much  as  if  this  or  that  were  gone,"  said 
Jacqueline,  in  a  hurt  tone,  pointing  first  to  a  Japanese 
bronze  and  then  to  an  Etruscan  vase;  "with  only  this 
difference,  that  you  care  least  for  the  living  object." 

"You  are  bitter,  Mademoiselle." 

"Because  you  make  me  such  provoking  answers, 
Monsieur.  My  feeling  is  different,"  she  went  on  im- 
petuously, "I  could  pass  my  whole  life  watching  you 
paint." 

"You  would  get  tired  of  it  probably  in  the  long 
run." 

"Never!"  she  cried,  blushing  a  deep  red. 

"And  you  would  have  to  put  up  with  my  pipe — that 
big  pipe  yonder — a  horror." 

[64] 


JACQUELINE 

"I  should  like  it,"  she  cried,  with  conviction. 

"But  you  would  not  like  my  bad  temper.  If  you 
knew  how  ill  I  can  behave  sometimes!  I  can  scold,  I 
can  become  unbearable,  when  this,  for  example,"  here 
he  pointed  with  his  mahlstick  to  the  Savonarola,  "does 
not  please  me." 

"But  it  is  beautiful — so  beautiful!" 

"It  is  detestable.  I  shall  have  to  go  back  some  day 
and  renew  my  impressions  of  Florence — see  once  more 
the  Piazze  of  the  Signora  and  San  Marco — and  then  I 
shall  begin  my  picture  all  over  again.  Let  us  go  to- 
gether— will  you?" 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  fervently,  "think  of  seeing  Italy! 
— and  with  you!" 

"It  might  not  be  so  great  a  pleasure  as  you  think. 
Nothing  is  such  a  bore  as  to  travel  with  people  who  are 
pervaded  by  one  idea,  and  my  idee  fixe  is  my  picture— 
my  great  Dominican.  He  has  taken  complete  posses- 
sion of  me — he  overshadows  me.  I  can  think  of  noth- 
ing but  him." 

"Oh!  but  you  think  of  me  sometimes,  I  suppose," 
said  Jacqueline,  softly,  "for  I  share  your  time  with 
him." 

"I  think  of  you  to  blame  you  for  taking  me  away 
from  the  fifteenth  century,"  replied  Hubert  Marien, 
half  seriously.  " Ouf ! — There!  it  is  done  at  last.  That 
dimple  I  never  could  manage  I  have  got  in  for  better  or 
for  worse.  Now  you  may  fly  off.  I  set  you  at  liberty— 
you  poor  little  thing!" 

She  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  profit  by  his  permission. 
She  stood  perfectly  still  in  the  middle  of  the  studio, 
5  [65] 


TH^O  BENTZON 

"Do  you  think  I  have  posed  well,  faithfully,  and 
with  docility  all  these  weeks?"  she  asked  at  last. 

"I  will  give  you  a  certificate  to  that  effect,  if  you  like. 
No  one  could  have  done  better." 

"And  if  the  certificate  is  not  all  I  want,  will  you  give 
me  some  other  present?" 

"A  beautiful  portrait — what  can  you  want 
more?" 

"The  picture  is  for  mamma.  I  ask  a  favor  on  my 
own  account." 

"I  refuse  it  beforehand.  But  you  can  tell  me  what  it 
is,  all  the  same." 

"Well,  then— the  only  part  of  your  house  that  I  have 
ever  been  in  is  this  atelier.  You  can  imagine  I  have  a 
curiosity  to  see  the  rest." 

"I  see!  you  threaten  me  with  a  domiciliary  visit 
without  warning.  Well!  certainly,  if  that  would  give 
you  any  amusement.  But  my  house  contains  nothing 
wonderful.  I  tell  you  that  beforehand." 

"One  likes  to  know  how  one's  friends  look  at  home 
—in  their  own  setting,  and  I  have  only  seen  you  here  at 
work  in  your  atelier" 

"The  best  point  of  view,  believe  me.  But  I  am  ready 
to  do  your  bidding.  Do  you  wish  to  see  where  I  eat 
my  dinner?"  asked  Marien,  as  he  took  her  down  the 
staircase  leading  to  his  dining-room." 

Fraulein  Schult  would  have  liked  to  go  with  them — 
it  was,  besides,  her  duty.  But  she  had  not  been  asked 
to  fulfil  it.  She  hesitated  a  moment,  and  in  that  mo- 
ment Jacqueline  had  disappeared.  After  considera- 
tion, the  promeneuse  went  on  with  her  crochet,  with  a 

[66] 


JACQUELINE 

shrug  of  her  shoulders  which  meant:  "She  can't  come 
to  much  harm." 

Seated  in  the  studio,  she  heard  the  sound  of  their 
voices  on  the  floor  below.  Jacqueline  was  lingering  in 
the  fencing-room  where  Marien  was  in  the  habit  of 
counteracting  by  athletic  exercises  the  effects  of  a  too 
sedentary  life.  She  was  amusing  herself  by  fingering 
the  dumb-bells  and  the  foils;  she  lingered  long  before 
some  precious  suits  of  armor.  Then  she  was  taken  up 
into  a  small  room,  communicating  with  the  atelier, 
where  there  was  a  fine  collection  of  drawings  by  the 
old  masters.  "My  only  luxury,"  said  Marien. 

Mademoiselle  Schult,  getting  impatient,  began  to  roll 
up  yards  and  yards  of  crochet,  and  coughed,  by  way  of 
a  signal,  but  remembering  how  disagreeable  it  would 
have  been  to  herself  to  be  interrupted  in  a  tete-a-tete 
with  her  apothecary,  she  thought  it  not  worth  while  to 
disturb  them  in  these  last  moments.  M.  de  Nailles's 
orders  had  been  that  she  was  to  sit  in  the  atelier.  So 
she  continued  to  sit  there,  doing  what  she  had  been  told 
to  do  without  any  qualms  of  conscience. 

When  Marien  had  shown  Jacqueline  all  his  drawings 
he  asked  her:  "Are  you  satisfied?" 

But  Jacqueline's  hand  was  already  on  the  portiere 
which  separated  the  little  room  from  Marien's  bed- 
chamber. 

"Oh!  J  beg  pardon,"  she  exclaimed,  pausing  on  the 
threshold. 

"One  would  think  you  would  like  to  see  me  asleep," 
said  Marien  with  some  little  embarrassment. 

"I  never  should  have  thought  your  bedroom  would 

[67] 


TH^O  BENTZON 

have  been  so  pretty.  Why,  it  is  as  elegant  as  a  lady's 
chamber,"  said  Jacqueline,  slipping  into  it  as  she  spoke, 
with  an  exciting  consciousness  of  doing  something  she 
ought  not  to  do. 

"What  an  insult,  when  I  thought  all  my  tastes  were 
simple  and  severe,"  he  replied;  but  he  had  not  followed 
her  into  the  chamber,  withheld  by  an  impulse  of  mod- 
esty men  sometimes  feel,  when  innocence  is  led  into 
audacity  through  ignorance. 

"What  lovely  flowers  you  have!"  said  Jacqueline, 
from  within.  "Don't  they  make  your  head  ache?" 

"I  take  them  out  at  night." 

"I  did  not  know  that  men  liked,  as  we  do,  to  be  sur- 
rounded by  flowers.  Won't  you  give  me  one?" 

"All,  if  you  like." 

"Oh!  one  pink  will  be  enough  for  me." 

"Then  take  it,"  said  Marien;  her  curiosity  alarmed 
him,  and  he  was  anxious  to  get  her  away. 

"Would  it  not  be  nicer  if  you  gave  it  me  yourself?" 
she  replied,  with  reproach  in  her  tones. 

"Here  is  one,  Mademoiselle.  And  now  I  must  tell 
you  that  I  want  to  dress.  I  have  to  go  out  imme- 
diately." 

She  pinned  the  pink  into  her  bodice  so  high  that  she 
could  inhale  its  perfume. 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  Thank  you,  and  good-by," 
she  said,  extending  her  hand  to  him  with  a  sigh. 

"Au  revoir" 

"Yes — au  revoir  at  home — but  that  will  not  be  like 
here." 

As  she  stood  there  before  him  there  came  into  her 

[68] 


JACQUELINE 

eyes  a  strange  expression,  to  which,  without  exactly 
knowing  why,  he  replied  by  pressing  his  lips  fer- 
vently on  the  little  hand  he  was  still  holding  in  his 
own. 

Very  often  since  her  infancy  he  had  kissed  her  before 
witnesses,  but  this  time  she  gave  a  little  cry,  and  turned 
as  white  as  the  flower  whose  petals  were  touching  her 
cheek. 

Marien  started  back  alarmed. 

"Good-by,"  he  said  in  a  tone  that  he  endeavored  to 
make  careless — but  in  vain. 

Though  she  was  much  agitated  herself  she  failed  not 
to  remark  his  emotion,  and  on  the  threshold  of  the 
atelier,  she  blew  a  kiss  back  to  him  from  the  tips  of  her 
gloved  fingers,  without  speaking  or  smiling.  Then 
she  went  back  to  Fraulein  Schult,  who  was  still  sitting 
in  the  place  where  she  had  left  her,  and  said:  "Let 
us  go." 

The  next  time  Madame  de  Nailles  saw  her  step- 
daughter she  was  dazzled  by  a  radiant  look  in  her 
young  face. 

"What  has  happened  to  you?"  she  asked,  "you  look 
triumphant." 

"Yes — I  have  good  reason  to  triumph,"  said  Jacque- 
line. "I  think  that  I  have  won  a  victory." 

"  How  so  ?    Over  yourself  ?  " 

"No,  indeed — victories  over  one's  self  give  us  the 
comfort  of  a  good  conscience,  but  they  do  not  make  us 
gay — as  I  am." 

"Then  tell  me " 

"No — no!  I  can  not  tell  you  yet.  I  must  be  silent 

[69] 


BENTZON 

two  days  more,"  said  Jacqueline,  throwing  herself  into 
hex  mother's  arms. 

Madame  de  Nailles  asked  no  more  questions,  but 
she  looked  at  her  stepdaughter  with  an  air  of  great  sur- 
prise. For  some  weeks  past  she  had  had  no  pleasure  in 
looking  at  Jacqueline.  She  began  to  be  aware  that 
near  her,  at  her  side,  an  exquisite  butterfly  was  about 
for  the  first  time  to  spread  its  wings — wings  of  a  radiant 
loveliness,  which,  when  they  fluttered  in  the  air,  would 
turn  all  eyes  away  from  other  butterflies,  which  had 
lost  some  of  their  freshness  during  the  summer. 

A  difficult  task  was  before  her.  How  could  she  keep 
this  too  precocious  insect  in  its  chrysalis  state?  How 
could  she  shut  it  up  in  its  dark  cocoon  and  retard  its 
transformation  ? 

"Jacqueline,"  she  said,  and  the  tones  of  her  voice 
were  less  soft  than  those  in  which  she  usually  addressed 
her,  "it  seems  to  me  that  you  are  wasting  your  time  a 
great  deal.  You  hardly  practise  at  all;  you  do  almost 
nothing  at  the  cours.  I  don't  know  what  can  be 
distracting  your  attention  from  your  lessons,  but  I 
have  received  complaints  which  should  make  a  great 
girl  like  you  ashamed  of  herself.  Do  you  know 
what  I  am  beginning  to  think? — That  Madame  de 
Monredon's  system  of  education  has  done  better  than 
mine." 

"Oh!  mamma,  you  can't  be  thinking  of  sending  me 
to  a  convent!"  cried  Jacqueline,  in  tones  of  comic 
despair. 

"I  did  not  say  that — but  I  really  think  it  might  be 
good  for  you  to  make  a  retreat  where  your  cousin 


JACQUELINE 

Giselle  is,  instead  of  plunging  into  follies  which  in- 
terrupt your  progress." 

"Do  you  call  Madame  d'Etaples's  bal  blanc  a 
folly?" 

"You  certainly  will  not  go  to  it — that  is  settled,"  said 
the  young  stepmother,  dryly. 


CHAPTER  V 


SURPRISES 

N  all  other  ways  Madame  de  Nailles 
did  her  best  to  assist  in  the  success  of 
the  surprise.  On  the  second  of  June, 
the  eve  of  Ste.-Clotilde's  day,  she 
went  out,  leaving  every  opportunity 
for  the  grand  plot  to  mature.  Had 
she  not  absented  herself  in  like  man- 
ner the  year  before  at  the  same  date- 
thus  enabling  an  upholsterer  to  drape  artistically  her 
little  salon  with  beautiful  thick  silk  tapestries  which 
had  just  been  imported  from  the  East?  Her  idea  was 
that  this  year  she  might  find  a  certain  lacquered  screen 
which  she  coveted.  The  Baroness  belonged  to  her 
period;  she  liked  Japanese  things.  But,  alas!  the 
charming  object  that  awaited  her,  with  a  curtain  hung 
over  it  to  prolong  the  suspense,  had  nothing  Japanese 
about  it  whatever.  Madame  de  Nailles  received  the 
good  wishes  of  her  family,  responded  to  them  with  all 
proper  cordiality,  and  then  was  dragged  up  joyously  to 
a  picture  hanging  on  the  wall  of  her  room,  but  still  con- 
cealed under  the  cloth  that  covered  it. 

"How  good  of  you!"  she  said,  with  all  confidence  to 
her  husband. 

"It  is  a  picture  by  Marien! — A  portrait  by  Marienl 
A  likeness  of  Jacqueline!" 

[7*1 


JACQUELINE 

And  he  uncovered  the  masterpiece  of  the  great  artist, 
expecting  to  be  joyous  in  the  joy  with  which  she  would 
receive  it.  But  something  strange  occurred.  Madame 
de  Nailles  sprang  back  a  step  or  two,  stretching  out  her 
arms  as  if  repelling  an  apparition,  her  face  was  dis- 
torted, her  head  was  turned  away;  then  she  dropped 
into  the  nearest  seat  and  burst  into  tears. 

"Mamma! — dear  little  mamma! — what  is  it?"  cried 
Jacqueline,  springing  forward  to  kiss  her. 

Madame  de  Nailles  disengaged  herself  angrily  from 
her  embrace. 

"Let  me  alone!"  she  cried,  "let  me  alone! — How 
dared  you  ? 

And  impetuously,  hardly  restraining  a  gesture  of 
horror  and  hate,  she  rushed  into  her  own  chamber. 
Thither  her  husband  followed  her,  anxious  and  bewil- 
dered, and  there  he  witnessed  a  nervous  attack  which 
ended  in  a  torrent  of  reproaches. 

Was  it  possible  that  he  had  not  seen  the  impropriety 
of  those  sittings  to  Marien  ?  Oh,  yes!  No  doubt  he  was 
an  old  friend  of  the  family,  but  that  did  not  prevent  all 
these  deceptions,  all  these  disguises,  and  all  the  other 
follies  which  he  had  sanctioned — he — Jacqueline's 
father! — from  being  very  improper.  Did  he  wish  to 
take  from  her  all  authority  over  his  child  ? — a  girl  who 
was  already  too  much  disposed  to  emancipate  herself. 
Her  own  efforts  had  all  been  directed  to  curb  this 
alarming  propensity — yes,  alarming — alarming  for  the 
future.  And  all  in  vain!  There  was  no  use  in  saying 
more.  Mon  Dieu!  had  he  no  trust  in  her  devotion  to 
his  child,  in  her  prudence  and  her  foresight,  that  he 

[73] 


THtfO  BENTZON 

must  thwart  her  thus  ?  And  she  had  always  imagined 
that  for  ten  years  she  had  faithfully  fulfilled  a  mother's 
duties!  What  ingratitude  from  every  one!  Mademoi- 
selle Schult  should  be  sent  away  at  once.  Jacqueline 
should  go  to  a  convent.  They  would  break  off  all  inter- 
course with  Marien.  They  had  conspired  against  her — 
every  one. 

And  then  she  wept  more  bitterly  than  ever — tears  of 
rage,  salt  tears  which  rubbed  the  powder  off  her  cheeks 
and  disfigured  the  face  that  had  remained  beautiful  by 
her  power  of  will  and  self-control.  But  now  the  dis- 
order of  her  nerves  got  the  better  of  precautions.  The 
blonde  angel,  whose  beauty  was  on  the  wane,  was 
transformed  into  a  fury.  Her  six-and-thirty  years  were 
fully  apparent,  her  complexion  appeared  slightly 
blotched,  all  her  defects  were  obtrusive  in  contrast  with 
the  precocious  development  of  beauty  in  Jacqueline. 
She  was  firmly  resolved  that  her  stepdaughter's  obtru- 
sive womanhood  should  remain  in  obscurity  a  very 
much  longer  time,  under  pretence  that  Jacqueline  was 
still  a  child.  She  was  a  child,  at  any  rate!  The  por- 
trait was  a  lie!  an  imposture!  an  affront!  an  out- 
rage! 

Meantime  M.  de  Nailles,  almost  beside  himself,  fan- 
cied at  first  that  his  wife  was  going  mad,  but  in  the  midst 
of  her  sobs  and  reproaches  he  managed  to  discover  that 
he  had  somehow  done  her  wrong,  and  when,  with  a 
broken  voice,  she  cried,  "You  no  longer  love  me!"  he 
did  not  know  what  to  do  to  prove  how  bitterly  he  re- 
pented having  grieved  her.  He  stammered,  he  made 
excuses,  he  owned  that  he  had  been  to  blame,  that  he 

[74] 


JACQUELINE 

had  been  very  stupid,  and  he  begged  her  pardon.  As 
to  the  portrait,  it  should  be  taken  from  the  salon,  where, 
if  seen,  it  might  become  a  pretext  for  foolish  compli- 
ments to  Jacqueline.  Why  not  send  it  at  once  to 
Grandchaux?  In  short,  he  would  do  anything  she 
wished,  provided  she  would  leave  off  crying. 

But  Madame  de  Nailles  continued  to  weep.  Her 
husband  was  forced  at  last  to  leave  her  and  to  return  to 
Jacqueline,  who  stood  petrified  in  the  salon. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "your  mamma  is  right.  We  have 
made  a  deplorable  mistake  in  what  we  have  done. 
Besides,  you  must  know  that  this  unlucky  picture  is  not 
in  the  least  like  you.  Marien  has  made  some  use  of 
your  features  to  paint  a  fancy  portrait — so  we  will  let 
nobody  see  it.  They  might  laugh  at  you." 

In  this  way  he  hoped  to  repair  the  evil  he  had  done 
in  flattering  his  daughter's  vanity,  and  promoting  that 
dangerous  spirit  cf  independence,  denounced  to  him 
a  few  minutes  before,  but  of  which,  up  to  that  time,  he 
had  never  heard. 

Jacqueline,  in  her  turn,  began  to  sob. 

Mademoiselle  Schult  had  cause,  too,  to  wipe  her 
eyes,  pretending  a  more  or  less  sincere  repentance  for 
her  share  in  the  deception.  Vigorously  cross-questioned 
by  Madame  de  Nailles,  who  called  upon  her  to  tell  all 
she  knew,  under  pain  of  being  dismissed  immediately, 
she  saw  but  one  way  of  retaining  her  situation,  which 
was  to  deliver  up  Jacqueline,  bound  hand  and  foot,  to 
the  anger  of  her  stepmother,  by  telling  all  she  knew 
of  the  childish  romance  of  which  she  had  been  the 
confidante.  As  a  reward  she  was  permitted  (as  she 

[75] 


TH^O  BENTZON 

had  foreseen)  to  retain  her  place  in  the  character  of 
a  spy. 

It  was  a  sad  Ste.-Clotilde's  day  that  year.  Marien, 
who  came  in  the  evening,  heard  with  surprise  that  the 
Baroness  was  indisposed  and  could  see  no  one.  For 
twelve  days  after  this  he  continued  in  disgrace,  being 
refused  admittance  when  he  called.  Those  twelve  days 
were  days  of  anguish  for  Jacqueline.  To  see  Marien 
no  longer,  to  be  treated  with  coldness  by  her  father,  to 
see  in  the  blue  eyes  of  her  stepmother — eyes  so  soft  and 
tender  when  they  looked  upon  her  hitherto — only  a 
harsh,  mistrustful  glare,  almost  a  look  of  hatred,  was 
a  punishment  greater  than  she  could  bear.  What  had 
she  done  to  deserve  punishment?  Of  what  was  she 
accused  ?  She  spoke  of  her  wretchedness  to  Fraulein 
Schult,  who,  perfidiously,  day  after  day,  drew  from  her 
something  to  report  to  Madame  de  Nailles.  That  lady 
was  somewhat  consoled,  while  suffering  tortures  of 
jealousy,  to  know  that  the  girl  to  whom  these  sufferings 
were  due  was  paying  dearly  for  her  fault  and  was  very 
unhappy. 

On  the  twelfth  day  something  occurred  which,  though 
it  made  no  noise  in  the  household,  had  very  serious  con- 
sequences. The  effect  it  produced  on  Jacqueline  was 
decisive  and  deplorable.  The  poor  child,  after  going 
through  all  the  states  of  mind  endured  by  those  who 
suffer  under  unmerited  disgrace — revolt,  indignation, 
sulkiness,  silent  obstinacy — felt  unable  to  bear  it 
longer.  She  resolved  to  humble  herself,  hoping  that  by 
so  doing  the  wall  of  ice  that  had  arisen  between  her 
stepmother  and  herself  might  be  cast  down.  By  this 

[76] 


JACQUELINE 

time  she  cared  less  to  know  of  what  fault  she  was  sup- 
posed to  be  guilty  than  to  be  taken  back  into  favor 
as  before.  What  must  she  do  to  obtain  forgiveness? 
Explanations  are  usually  worthless;  besides,  none 
might  be  granted  her.  She  remembered  that  when  she 
was  a  small  child  she  had  obtained  immediate  oblivion 
of  any  fault  by  throwing  herself  impulsively  into  the 
arms  of  her  little  mamma,  and  asking  her  to  forget  what- 
ever she  had  done  to  displease  her,  for  she  had  not  done 
it  on  purpose.  She  would  do  the  same  thing  now. 
Putting  aside  all  pride  and  obstinacy,  she  would  go  to 
this  mamma,  who,  for  some  days,  had  seemed  so  dif- 
ferent. She  would  smother  her  in  kisses.  She  might 
possibly  be  repelled  at  first.  She  would  not  mind  it. 
She  was  sure  that  in  the  end  she  would  be  forgiven. 

No  sooner  was  this  resolution  formed  than  she  has- 
tened to  put  it  into  execution.  It  was  the  time  of  day 
when  Madame  de  Nailles  was  usually  alone.  Jacque- 
line went  to  her  bedchamber,  but  she  was  not  there, 
and  a  moment  after  she  stood  on  the  threshold  of  the 
little  salon.  There  she  stopped  short,  not  quite  certain 
how  she  should  proceed,  asking  herself  what  would  be 
her  reception. 

"How  shall  I  do  it?"  she  thought.  "How  had  I 
better  do  it?" 

"Bah!"  she  answered  these  doubts.  "It  will  be 
very  easy.  I  will  go  in  on  tiptoe,  so  that  she  can't  hear 
me.  I  will  slip  behind  her  chair,  and  I  will  hug  her 
suddenly,  so  tight,  so  tenderly,  and  kiss  her  till  she  tells 
me  that  all  has  been  forgiven." 

As  she  thought  thus  Jacqueline  noiselessly  opened  the 

[77] 


TH6O  BENTZON 

door  of  the  salon,  over  which,  on  the  inner  side,  hung  a 
thick  plush  portiere.  But  as  she  was  about  to  lift  it,  the 
sound  of  a  voice  within  made  her  stand  motionless. 
She  recognized  the  tones  of  Marien.  He  was  pleading, 
imploring,  interrupted  now  and  then  by  the  sharp  and 
still  angry  voice  of  her  mamma.  They  were  not  speaking 
above  their  breath,  but  if  she  listened  she  could  hear 
them,  and,  without  any  scruples  of  conscience,  she  did 
listen  intently,  anxious  to  see  her  way  through  the  dark 
fog  in  which,  for  twelve  days,  she  had  wandered. 

"I  do  not  go  quite  so  far  as  that,"  said  Madame  de 
Nailles,  dryly.  "It  is  enough  forme  that  she  produced 
an  illusion  of  such  beauty  upon  you.  Now  I  know 
what  to  expect — " 

"That  is  nonsense,"  replied  Marien — "mere  fool- 
ishness. You  jealous!  jealous  of  a  baby  whom  I  knew 
when  she  wore  white  pinafores,  who  has  grown  up 
under  my  very  eyes?  But,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned, 
she  exists  no  longer.  She  is  not,  she  never  will  be  in 
my  eyes,  a  woman.  I  shall  think  of  her  as  playing  with 
her  doll,  eating  sugar-plums,  and  so  on." 

Jacqueline  grew  faint.  She  shivered  and  leaned 
against  the  door-post. 

"One  would  not  suppose  so,  to  judge  by  the  picture 
with  which  she  has  inspired  you.  You  may  say  what 
you  like,  but  I  know  that  in  all  this  there  was  a  set 
purpose  to  insult  me." 

"Clotilde!" 

"In  the  first  place,  on  no  pretext  ought  you  to  have 
been  induced  to  paint  her  portrait." 

"Do  you  think  so?  Consider,  had  I  refused,  the 

[78] 


JACQUELINE 

danger  of  awakening  suspicion?  I  accepted  the  com- 
mission most  unwillingly,  much  put  out  by  it,  as  you 
may  suppose.  But  you  are  making  too  much  of  an 
imaginary  fault.  Consign  the  wretched  picture  to  the 
barn,  if  you  like.  We  will  never  say  another  word 
about  so  foolish  a  matter.  You  promise  me  to  forget 
it,  won't  you?  .  .  .  Dear!  you  will  promise  me?"  he 
added,  after  a  pause. 

Madame  de  Nailles  sighed  and  replied:  "If  not  she 
it  will  be  some  one  else.  I  am  very  unhappy.  ...  I  am 
weak  and  contemptible.  ..." 

"Clotilde!"  replied  Marien,  in  an  accent  that  went 
to  Jacqueline's  heart  like  a  knife. 

She  fancied  that  after  this  she  heard  the  sound  of  a 
kiss,  and,  with  her  cheeks  aflame  and  her  head  burning, 
she  rushed  away.  She  understood  little  of  what  she 
had  overheard.  She  only  realized  that  he  had  given 
her  up,  that  he  had  turned  her  into  ridicule,  that  he 
had  said  "Clotilde!"  to  her  mother,  that  he  had  called 
her  dear — she! — the  woman  she  had  so  adored,  so  ven- 
erated, her  best  friend,  her  father's  wife,  her  mother  by 
adoption!  Everything  in  this  world  seemed  to  be  giv- 
ing way  under  her  feet.  The  world  was  full  of  false- 
hood and  of  treason,  and  life,  so  bad,  so  cruel,  was  no 
longer  what  she  had  supposed  it  to  be.  It  had  broken 
its  promise  to  herself,  it  had  made  her  bad — bad  for- 
ever. She  loved  no  one,  she  believed  in  no  one.  She 
wished  she  were  dead. 

How  she  reached  her  own  room  in  this  state  Jacque- 
line never  knew.  She  was  aware  at  last  of  being  on  her 
knees  beside  her  bed,  with  her  face  hidden  in  the  bed- 

[79] 


BENTZON 

clothes.  She  was  biting  them  to  stifle  her  desire  to 
scream.  Her  hands  were  clenched  convulsively. 

"Mamma!"  she  cried,  "mamma!" 

Was  this  a  reproach  addressed  to  her  she  had  so  long 
called  by  that  name?  Or  was  it  an  appeal,  vibrating 
with  remorse,  to  her  real  mother,  so  long  forgotten  in 
favor  of  this  false  idol,  her  rival,  her  enemy  ? 

Undoubtedly,  Jacqueline  was  too  innocent,  too  igno- 
rant to  guess  the  real  truth  from  what  she  had  over- 
heard. But  she  had  learned  enough  to  be  no  longer 
the  pure-minded  young  girl  of  a  few  hours  before.  It 
seemed  to  her  as  if  a  fetid  swamp  now  lay  before  her, 
barring  her  entrance  into  life.  Vague  as  her  percep- 
tions were,  this  swamp  before  her  seemed  more  deep, 
more  dark,  more  dreadful  from  uncertainty,  and 
Jacqueline  felt  that  thenceforward  she  could  make  no 
step  in  life  without  risk  of  falling  into  it.  To  whom 
now  could  she  open  her  heart  in  confidence — that 
heart  bleeding  and  bruised  as  if  it  had  been  trampled  on. 
as  if  some  one  had  crushed  it  ?  The  thing  that  she  now 
knew  was  not  like  her  own  little  personal  secrets,  such 
as  she  had  imprudently  confided  to  Fraulein  Schult. 
The  words  that  she  had  overheard  she  could  repeat  to 
no  one.  She  must  carry  them  in  her  heart,  like  the 
barb  of  an  arrow  in  a  secret  wound,  where  they  would 
fester  and  grow  more  painful  day  by  day. 

"But,  above  all,"  she  said  at  length,  rising  from  her 
knees,  "let  me  show  proper  pride." 

She  bathed  her  fevered  face  in  cold  water,  then  she 
walked  up  to  her  mirror.  As  she  gazed  at  herself  with 
a  strange  interest,  trying  to  see  whether  the  entire 

[80] 


JACQUELINE 

change  so  suddenly  accomplished  in  herself  had  left  its 
visible  traces  on  her  features,  she  seemed  to  see  some- 
thing in  her  eyes  that  spoke  of  the  clairvoyance  of 
despair.  She  smiled  at  herself,  to  see  whether  the  new 
Jacqueline  could  play  the  part,  which — whether  she 
would  or  not — was  now  assigned  to  her.  What  a  sad 
smile  it  was! 

"I  have  lost  everything,"  she  said,  "I  have  lost  every- 
thing!" And  she  remembered,  as  one  remembers 
something  in  the  far-off  long  ago,  how  that  very  morn- 
ing, when  she  awoke,  her  first  thought  had  been: 
"Shall  I  see  him  to-day?"  Each  day  she  passed  with- 
out seeing  him  had  seemed  to  her  a  lost  day,  and  she 
had  accustomed  herself  to  go  to  sleep  thinking  of  him, 
remembering  all  he  had  said  to  her,  and  how  he  had 
looked  at  her.  Of  course,  sometimes  she  had  been  un- 
happy, but  what  a  difference  it  seemed  between  such 
vague  unhappiness  and  what  she  now  experienced? 
And  then,  when  she  was  sad,  she  could  always  find  a 
refuge  in  that  dear  mamma — in  that  Clotilde  whom  she 
vowed  she  would  never  kiss  again,  except  with  such 
kisses  as  might  be  necessary  to  avoid  suspicion.  Kisses 
of  that  kind  were  worth  nothing.  Quite  the  contrary! 
Could  she  kiss  her  father  now  without  a  pang?  Her 
father!  He  had  gone  wholly  over  to  the  side  of  that 
other  in  this  affair.  She  had  seen  him  in  one  moment 
turn  against  herself.  No! — no  one  was  left  her!  .  .  . 
If  she  could  only  lay  her  head  in  Modeste's  lap  and  be 
soothed  while  she  crooned  her  old  songs  as  in  the  nur- 
sery! But,  whatever  Marien  or  any  one  else  might 
choose  to  say,  she  was  no  longer  a  baby.  The  bitter 
6  [81] 


BENTZON 

sense  of  her  isolation  arose  in  her.  She  could  hardly 
breathe.  Suddenly  she  pressed  her  lips  upon  the  glass 
which  reflected  her  own  image,  so  sad,  so  pale,  so  deso- 
late. She  put  the  pity  for  herself  into  a  long,  long,  fer- 
vent kiss,  which  seemed  to  say:  "Yes,  I  am  all  alone — 
alone  forever."  Then,  in  a  spirit  of  revenge,  she  opened 
what  seemed  a  safety-valve,  preventing  her  from  giving 
way  to  any  other  emotion. 

She  rushed  for  a  little  box  which  she  had  converted 
into  a  sort  of  reliquary.  She  took  out  of  it  the  half- 
burned  cigarette,  the  old  glove,  the  withered  violets, 
and  a  visiting-card  with  his  name,  on  which  three  un- 
important lines  had  been  written.  She  insulted  these 
keepsakes,  she  tore  them  with  her  nails,  she  trampled 
them  underfoot,  she  reduced  them  to  fragments;  she 
left  nothing  whatever  of  them,  except  a  pile  of  shreds, 
which  at  last  she  set  fire  to.  She  had  a  feeling  as  if  she 
were  employed  in  executing  two  great  culprits,  who  de- 
served cruel  tortures  at  her  hands;  and,  with  them,  she 
slew  now  and  forever  the  foolish  fancy  she  had  called 
her  love.  By  a  strange  association  of  ideas,  the  famous 
composition,  so  praised  by  M.  Regis,  came  back  to  her 
memory,  and  she  cried : 

"Je  ne  veux  me  souvenir.  .  .  .  me  souvenir  de  rienl 
If  I  remember,  I  shall  be  more  unhappy.  All  has  been 
a  dream.  His  look  was  a  dream,  his  pressure  of  my 
hand,  his  kiss  on  the  last  day,  all — all — were  dreams. 
He  was  making  a  fool  of  me  when  he  gave  me  that  pink 
which  is  now  in  this  pile  of  ashes.  He  was  laughing 
when  he  told  me  I  was  more  beautiful  than  was 
natural.  Never  have  I  been— never  shall  I  be  in  his 

[82] 


JACQUELINE 

eyes — more  than  the  baby  he  remembers  playing  with 
her  doll." 

And  unconsciously,  as  Jacqueline  said  these  words, 
she  imitated  the  careless  accent  with  which  she  had 
heard  them  fall  from  the  lips  of  the  artist.  And  she 
would  have  again  to  meet  him !  If  she  had  had  thunder 
and  lightning  at  her  command,  as  she  had  had  the 
match  with  which  she  had  set  fire  to  the  memorials  of 
her  juvenile  folly,  Marien  would  have  been  annihilated 
on  the  spot.  She  was  at  that  moment  a  murderess  at 
heart.  But  the  dinner-bell  rang.  The  young  fury  gave 
a  last  glance  at  the  adornments  of  her  pretty  bedcham- 
ber, so  elegant,  so  original — all  blue  and  pink,  with  a 
couch  covered  with  silk  embroidered  with  flowers.  She 
seemed  to  say  to  them  all:  "Keep  my  secret.  It  is  a 
sad  one.  Be  careful:  keep  it  safely."  The  cupids  on 
the  clock,  the  little  book-rest  on  a  velvet  stand,  the  pic- 
ture of  the  Virgin  that  hung  over  her  bed,  with  rosaries 
and  palms  entwined  about  it,  the  photographs  of  her 
girl-friends  standing  on  her  writing-table  in  pretty 
frames  of  old-fashioned  silk — all  seemed  to  see  her 
depart  with  a  look  of  sympathy. 

She  went  down  to  the  dining-room,  resolved  to  prove 
that  she  would  not  submit  to  punishment.  The  best 
way  to  brave  Madame  de  Nailles  was,  she  thought,  to 
affect  great  calmness  and  indifference,  aye,  even,  if  she 
could,  some  gayety.  But  the  task  before  her  was  more 
difficult  than  she  had  expected.  Apparently,  as  a  proof 
of  reconciliation,  Marien  had  been  kept  to  dinner.  To 
see  him  so  soon  again  after  his  words  of  outrage  was 
more  than  she  could  bear.  For  one  moment  the  earth 

[83] 


TH^O  BENTZON 

seemed  to  sink  under  her  feet ;  she  roused  her  pride  by 
an  heroic  effort,  and  that  sustained  her.  She  exchanged 
with  the  artist,  as  she  always  did,  a  friendly  "Good- 
evening!"  and  ate  her  dinner,  though  it  nearly  choked 
her. 

Madame  de  Nailles  had  red  eyes;  and  Jacqueline 
made  the  reflection  that  women  who  are  thirty-five 
should  never  weep.  She  knew  that  her  face  had  not 
been  made  ugly  by  her  tears,  and  this  gave  her  a  per- 
verse satisfaction  in  the  midst  of  her  misery.  Of 
Marien  she  thought:  "He  sits  there  as  if  he  had  been 
put  en  penitence."  No  doubt  he  could  not  endure 
scenes,  and  the  one  he  had  just  passed  through  must 
have  given  him  the  downcast  look  which  Jacqueline 
noticed  with  contempt. 

What  she  did  not  know  was  that  his  depression  had 
more  than  one  cause.  He  felt — and  felt  with  shame 
and  with  discouragement — that  the  fetters  of  a  connec- 
tion which  had  long  since  ceased  to  charm  had  been 
fastened  on  his  wrists  tighter  than  ever;  and  he  thought : 
"I  shall  lose  all  my  energy,  I  shall  lose  even  my  talent! 
While  I  wear  these  chains  I  shall  see  ever  before  me- 
an! tortures  of  Tantalus! — the  vision  of  a  new  love, 
fresh  as  the  dawn  which  beckons  to  me  as  it  passes  be- 
fore my  sight,  which  lays  on  me  the  light  touch  of  a 
caress,  while  I  am  forced  to  see  it  glide  away,  to  let  it 
vanish,  disappear  forever!  And  alas!  that  is  not  all. 
If  I  have  deceived  an  inexperienced  heart  by  words 
spoken  or  deeds  done  in  a  moment  of  weakness  or 
temptation,  can  I  flatter  myself  that  I  have  acted  like 
an  honest  man?" 

[84] 


JACQUELINE 

This  is  what  Marien  was  really  thinking,  while 
Jacqueline  looked  at  him  with  an  expression  she  strove 
to  make  indifferent,  but  which  he  interpreted,  though  she 
knew  it  not :  "  You  have  done  me  all  the  harm  you  can." 

M.  de  Nailles  meantime  went  on  talking,  with  little 
response  from  his  wife  or  his  guest,  about  some  vehe- 
ment discussion  of  a  new  law  going  on  just  then  in  the 
Chamber,  and  he  became  so  interested  in  his  own  dis- 
course that  he  did  not  remark  the  constraint  of  the 
others. 

Marien  at  last,  tired  of  responding  in  monosyllables 
to  his  remarks,  said  abruptly,  a  short  time  before  des- 
sert was  placed  upon  the  table,  something  about  the 
probability  of  his  soon  going  to  Italy. 

"A  pilgrimage  of  art  to  Florence!"  cried  the  Baron, 
turning  at  once  from  politics.  "That's  good.  But  wait 
a  little — let  it  be  after  the  rising  of  the  Chamber.  We 
will  follow  your  steps.  It  has  been  the  desire  of  my 
wife's  life — a  little  jaunt  to  Italy.  Has  it  not,  Clotilde  ? 
So  we  will  all  go  in  September  or  October.  What  say 
you?" 

"In  September  or  October,  whichever  suits  you," 
said  Marien,  with  despair. 

Not  one  month  of  liberty!  Why  couldn't  they  leave 
him  to  his  Savonarola !  Must  he  drag  about  a  ball  and 
chain  like  a  galley-slave  ? 

Clotilde  rewarded  M.  de  Nailles  with  a  smile — the 
first  smile  she  had  given  him  since  their  quarrel  about 
Jacqueline. 

"My  wife  has  got  over  her  displeasure,"  he  said  to 
himself,  delightedly. 

[85] 


BENTZON 

Jacqueline,  on  her  part,  well  remembered  the  day 
when  Hubert  had  spoken  to  her  for  the  first  time  of  his 
intended  journey,  and  how  he  had  added,  in  a  tone 
which  she  now  knew  to  be  badinage,  but  which  then, 
alas!  she  had  believed  serious:  "Suppose  we  go 
together!" 

And  her  impulse  to  shed  tears  became  so  great,  that 
when  they  left  the  dinner-table  she  escaped  to  her  own 
room,  under  pretence  of  a  headache. 

"Yes — you  are  looking  wretchedly,"  said  her  step- 
mother. And,  turning  to  M.  de  Nailles,  she  added: 
"Don't  you  think,  man  ami,  she  is  as  yellow  as  a 
quince!"  Marien  dared  not  press  the  hand  which 
she,  who  had  been  his  little  friend  for  years,  offered  him 
as  usual,  but  this  time  with  repugnance. 

"You  are  suffering,  my  poor  Jacqueline!"  he  ven- 
tured to  say. 

"Oh!  not  much,"  she  answered,  with  a  glance  at 
once  haughty  and  defiant,  "to-morrow  I  shall  be  quite 
well  again." 

And,  saying  this,  she  had  the  courage  to  laugh. 

But  she  was  not  quite  well  the  next  day;  and  for 
many  days  after  she  was  forced  to  stay  in  bed.  The 
doctor  who  came  to  see  her  talked  about  "low  fever," 
attributed  it  to  too  rapid  growth,  and  prescribed  sea- 
bathing for  her  that  summer.  The  fever,  which  was 
not  very  severe,  was  of  great  service  to  Jacqueline.  It 
enabled  her  to  recover  in  quiet  from  the  effects  of  a 
bitter  deception. 

Madame  de  Nailles  was  not  sufficiently  uneasy  about 
her  to  be  always  at  her  bedside.  Usually  the  sick  girl 

[86] 


JACQUELINE 

stayed  alone,  with  her  window-curtains  closed,  lying 
there  in  the  soft  half-light  that  was  soothing  to  her 
nerves.  The  silence  was  broken  at  intervals  by  the 
voice  of.  Modeste,  who  would  come  and  offer  her  her 
medicine.  When  Jacqueline  had  taken  it,  she  would 
shut  her  eyes,  and  resume,  half  asleep,  her  sad  reflec- 
tions. These  were  always  the  same.  What  could  be  the 
tie  between  her  stepmother  and  Marien  ? 

She  tried  to  recall  all  the  proofs  of  friendship  she 
had  seen  pass  between  them,  but  all  had  taken  place 
openly.  Nothing  that  she  could  remember  seemed  sus- 
picious. So  she  thought  at  first,  but  as  she  thought 
more,  lying,  feverish,  upon  her  bed,  several  things, 
little  noticed  at  the  time,  were  recalled  to  her  remem- 
brance. They  might  mean  nothing,  or  they  might 
mean  much.  In  the  latter  case,  Jacqueline  could  not 
understand  them  very  well.  But  she  knew  he  had 
called  her  "Clotilde,"  that  he  had  even  dared  to  say 
"thou"  to  her  in  private — these  were  things  she  knew 
of  her  own  knowledge.  Her  pulse  beat  quicker  as  she 
thought  of  them;  her  head  burned.  In  that  studio, 
where  she  had  passed  so  many  happy  hours,  had 
Marien  and  her  stepmother  ever  met  as  lovers  ? 

Her  stepmother  and  Marien!  She  could  not  under- 
stand what  it  meant.  Must  she  apply  to  them  a  dread- 
ful word  that  she  had  picked  up  in  the  history  books, 
where  it  had  been  associated  with  such  women  as  Mar- 
garet of  Burgundy,  Isabeau  of  Bavaria,  Anne  Boleyn, 
and  other  princesses  of  very  evil  reputation  ?  She  had 
looked  it  out  in  the  dictionary,  where  the  meaning  given 
was:  "To  be  unfaithful  to  conjugal  vows."  Even  then 

[87] 


TH^O  BENTZON 

she  could  not  understand  precisely  the  meaning  of  adul- 
tery, and  she  set  herself  to  solve  it  during  the  long  lonely 
days  when  she  was  convalescent.  When  she  was  able 
to  walk  from  one  room  to  another,  she  wandered  in  a 
loose  dressing-gown,  whose  long,  lank  folds  showed 
that  she  had  grown  taller  and  thinner  during  her  illness, 
into  the  room  that  held  the  books,  and  went  boldly  up 
to  the  bookcase,  the  key  of  which  had  been  left  in  the 
lock,  for  everybody  had  entire  confidence  in  Jacque- 
line's scrupulous  honesty.  Never  before  had  she  broken 
a  promise ;  she  knew  that  a  well-brought-up  young  girl 
ought  to  read  only  such  books  as  were  put  into  her 
hands.  The  idea  of  taking  a  volume  from  those 
shelves  had  no  more  occurred  to  her  than  the  idea  of 
taking  money  out  of  somebody's  purse;  that  is,  up  to 
this  moment  it  had  not  occurred  to  her  to  do  so;  but 
now  that  she  had  lost  all  respect  for  those  in  authority 
over  her,  Jacqueline  considered  herself  released  from 
any  obligation  to  obey  them.  She  therefore  made  use 
of  the  first  opportunity  that  presented  itself  to  take 
down  a  novel  of  George  Sand,  which  she  had  heard 
spoken  of  as  a  very  dangerous  book,  not  doubting  it 
would  throw  some  light  on  the  subject  that  absorbed 
her.  But  she  shut  up  the  volume  in  a  rage  when  she 
found  that  it  had  nothing  but  excuses  to  offer  for  the 
fall  of  a  married  woman.  After  that,  and  guided  only 
by  chance,  she  read  a  number  of  other  novels,  most  of 
which  were  of  antediluvian  date,  thus  accounting,  she 
supposed,  for  their  sentiments,  which  she  found  old- 
fashioned.  We  should  be  wrong,  however,  if  we  sup- 
posed that  Jacqueline's  crude  judgment  of  these  books 

[88] 


JACQUELINE 

had  nothing  in  common  with  true  criticism.  Her  only 
object,  however,  in  reading  all  this  sentimental  prose 
was  to  discover,  as  formerly  she  had  found  in  poetry, 
something  that  applied  to  her  own  case;  but  she  soon 
discovered  that  all  the  sentimental  heroines  in  the  so- 
called  bad  books  were  persons  who  had  had  bad  hus- 
bands; besides,  they  were  either  widows  or  old  women 
—at  least  thirty  years  old !  It  was  astounding !  There 
was  nothing — absolutely  nothing — about  young  girls, 
except  instances  in  which  they  renounced  their  hopes  of 
happiness.  What  an  injustice!  Among  these  victims 
the  two  that  most  attracted  her  sympathy  were  Ma- 
dame de  Camors  and  Renee  Mauperin.  But  what 
horrors  surrounded  them!  What  a  varied  assortment 
of  deceptions,  treacheries,  and  mysteries,  lay  hidden 
under  the  outward  decency  and  respectability  of  what 
men  called  "the  world!"  Her  young  head  became  a 
stage  on  which  strange  plays  were  acted.  What  one 
reads  is  good  or  bad  for  us,  according  to  the  frame  of 
mind  in  which  we  read  it — according  as  we  discover  in 
a  volume  healing  for  the  sickness  of  our  souls — or  the 
contrary.  In  view  of  the  circumstances  in  which  she 
found  herself,  what  Jacqueline  absorbed  from  these 
books  was  poison. 

When,  after  the  physical  and  moral  crisis  through 
which  she  had  passed,  Jacqueline  resumed  the  life  of 
every  day,  she  had  in  her  sad  eyes,  around  which  for 
some  time  past  had  been  dark  circles,  an  expression  of 
anxiety  such  as  the  first  contact  with  a  knowledge  of 
evil  might  have  put  into  Eve's  eyes  after  she  had 
plucked  the  apple.  Her  investigations  had  very  im- 

[89] 


THfiO  BENTZON 

perfectly  enlightened  her.  She  was  as  much  perplexed 
as  ever,  with  some  false  ideas  besides.  When  she  was 
well  again,  however,  she  continued  weak  and  languid ; 
she  felt  somehow  as  if  she  had  come  back  to  her  old 
surroundings  from  some  place  far  away.  Everything 
about  her  now  seemed  sad  and  unfamiliar,  though 
outwardly  nothing  was  altered.  Her  parents  had  ap- 
parently forgotten  the  unhappy  episode  of  the  picture. 
It  had  been  sent  away  to  Grandchaux,  which  was  tan- 
tamount to  its  being  buried.  Hubert  Marien  had  re- 
sumed his  habits  of  intimacy  in  the  family.  From  that 
time  forth  he  took  less  and  less  notice  of  Jacqueline — 
whether  it  were  that  he  owed  her  a  grudge  for  all  the 
annoyance  she  had  been  the  means  of  bringing  upon 
him,  or  whether  he  feared  to  burn  himself  in  the  flame 
which  had  once  scorched  him  more  than  he  admitted 
to  himself,  who  can  say?  Perhaps  he  was  only  acting 
in  obedience  to  orders. 


[90] 


A  CONVENT  FLOWER 

IE  of  Jacqueline's  first  walks,  after 
she  had  recovered,  was  to  see  her 
cousin  Giselle  at  her  convent.  She 
did  not  seek  this  friend's  society 
when  she  was  happy  and  in  a  humor 
for  amusement,  for  she  thought  her 
a  little  straightlaced,  or,  as  she  said, 
too  like  a  nun;  but  nobody  could 
condole  or  sympathize  with  a  friend  in  trouble  like 
Giselle.  It  seemed  as  if  nature  herself  had  intended 
her  for  a  Sister  of  Charity — a  Gray  Sister,  as  Jacqueline 
would  sometimes  call  her,  making  fun  of  her  somewhat 
dull  intellect,  which  had  been  benumbed,  rather  than 
stimulated,  by  the  education  she  had  received. 

The  Benedictine  Convent  is  situated  in  a  dull  street 
on  the  left  bank  of  the  Seine,  all  gardens  and  hdtels — 
that  is,  detached  houses.  Grass  sprouted  here  and 
there  among  the  cobblestones.  There  were  no  street- 
lamps  and  no  policemen.  Profound  silence  reigned 
there.  The  petals  of  an  acacia,  which  peeped  timidly 
over  its  high  wall,  dropped,  like  flakes  of  snow,  on  the 
few  pedestrians  who  passed  by  it  in  the  springtime. 
The  enormous  porte-cochere  gave  entrance  into  a  square 

[91] 


TH^O  BENTZON 

courtyard,  on  one  side  of  which  was  the  chapel,  on 
the  other,  the  door  that  led  into  the  convent.  Here 
Jacqueline  presented  herself,  accompanied  by  her  old 
nurse,  Modeste.  She  had  not  yet  resumed  her  German 
lessons,  and  was  striving  to  put  off  as  long  as  possible 
any  intercourse  with  Fraulein  Schult,  who  had  known 
of  her  foolish  fancy,  and  who  might  perhaps  renew  the 
odious  subject.  Walking  with  Modeste,  on  the  con- 
trary, seemed  like  going  back  to  the  days  of  her  child- 
hood, the  remembrance  of  which  soothed  her  like  a 
recollection  of  happiness  and  peace,  now  very  far  away; 
it  was  a  reminiscence  of  the  far-off  limbo  in  which  her 
young  soul,  pure  and  white,  had  floated,  without  rap- 
ture, but  without  any  great  grief  or  pain. 

The  porteress  showed  them  into  the  parlor.  There 
they  found  several  pupils  who  were  talking  to  members 
of  their  families,  from  whom  they  were  separated  by 
a  grille,  whose  black  bars  gave  to  those  within  the 
appearance  of  captives,  and  made  rather  a  barrier  to 
eager  demonstrations  of  affection,  though  they  did  not 
hinder  the  reception  of  good  things  to  eat. 

"Tiens!  I  have  brought  you  some  chocolate,"  said 
Jacqueline  to  Giselle,  as  soon  as  her  cousin  appeared, 
looking  far  prettier  in  her  black  cloth  frock  than  when 
she  wore  an  ordinary  walking-costume.  Her  fair  hair 
was  drawn  back  a  la  Chinoise  from  a  white  forehead 
resembling  that  of  a  German  Madonna; — it  was  one 
of  those  foreheads,  slightly  and  delicately  curved, 
which  phrenologists  tell  us  indicate  reflection  and  en- 
thusiasm. 

But  Giselle,  without  thanking  Jacqueline  for  the 

[92] 


JACQUELINE 

chocolate,  exclaimed  at  once:  "Mm  Dieu!  What  has 
been  the  matter  with  you?" 

She  spoke  rather  louder  than  usual,  it  being  under- 
stood that  conversations  were  to  be  carried  on  in  a 
low  tone,  so  as  not  to  interfere  with  those  of  other 
persons.  She  added:  "I  find  you  so  altered." 

"Yes — I  have  been  ill,"  said  Jacqueline,  carelessly, 
"sorrow  has  made  me  ill,"  she  added,  in  a  whisper, 
looking  to  see  whether  the  nun,  who  was  discreetly 
keeping  watch,  walking  to  and  fro  behind  the  grille, 
might  chance  to  be  listening.  "Oh,  ask  me  no  ques- 
tions! I  must  never  tell  you — but  for  me,  you  must 
know — the  happiness  of  my  life  is  at  an  end — is  at  an 
end " 

She  felt  herself  to  be  very  interesting  while  she  was 
speaking  thus;  her  sorrows  were  somewhat  assuaged. 
There  was  undoubtedly  a  certain  pleasure  in  letting 
some  one  look  down  into  the  unfathomable,  mysterious 
depths  of  a  suffering  soul. 

She  had  expected  much  curiosity  on  the  part  of 
Giselle,  and  had  resolved  beforehand  to  give  her  no 
answers;  but  Giselle  only  sighed,  and  said,  softly: 

"Ah — my  poor  darling!  I,  too,  am  very  unhappy. 
If  you  only  knew " 

"How?  Good  heavens!  what  can  have  happened 
to  you  here?" 

"Here?  oh!  nothing,  of  course;  but  this  year  I  am 
to  leave  the  convent — and  I  think  I  can  guess  what  will 
then  be  before  me." 

Here,  seeing  that  the  nun  who  was  keeping  guard 
was  listening,  Giselle,  with  great  presence  of  mind, 


BENTZON 

spoke  louder  on  indifferent  subjects  till  she  had  passed 
out  of  earshot,  then  she  rapidly  poured  her  secret  into 
Jacqueline's  ear. 

From  a  few  words  that  had  passed  between  her 
grandmother  and  Madame  d'Argy,  she  had  found  out 
that  Madame  de  Monredon  intended  to  marry  her. 

"But  that  need  not  make  you  unhappy,"  said 
Jacqueline,  "unless  he  is  really  distasteful  to  you." 

"That  is  what  I  am  not  sure  about — perhaps  he  is 
not  the  one  I  think.  But  I  hardly  know  why — I  have 
a  dread,  a  great  dread,  that  it  is  one  of  our  neighbors 
in  the  country.  Grandmamma  has  several  times 
spoken  in  my  presence  of  the  advantage  of  uniting  our 
two  estates — they  touch  each  other — oh!  I  know  her 
ideas!  she  wants  a  man  well-born,  one  who  has  a 
position  in  the  world — some  one,  as  she  says,  who 
knows  something  of  life — that  is,  I  suppose,  some  one 
no  longer  young,  and  who  has  not  much  hair  on  his 
head — like  Monsieur  de  Talbrun." 

"Is  he  very  ugly — this  Monsieur  de  Talbrun?" 

"He's  not  ugly — and  not  handsome.  But,  just 
think!  he  is  thirty-four!" 

Jacqueline  blushed,  seeing  in  this  speech  a  reflection 
on  her  own  taste  in  such  matters. 

"That's  twice  my  age,"  sighed  Giselle. 

"  Of  course  that  would  be  dreadful  if  he  were  to  stay 
always  twice  your  age — for  instance,  if  you  were  now 
thirty-five,  he  would  be  seventy,  and  a  hundred  and 
twenty  when  you  reached  your  sixtieth  year — but  really 
to  be  twice  your  age  now  will  only  make  him  seven- 
teen years  older  than  yourself." 

[94] 


JACQUELINE 

In  the  midst  of  this  chatter,  which  was  beginning  to 
attract  the  notice  of  the  nun,  they  broke  off  with  a 
laugh,  but  it  was  only  one  of  those  laughs  au  bout  des 
tivres,  uttered  by  persons  who  have  made  up  their 
minds  to  be  unhappy.  Then  Giselle  went  on: 

"I  know  nothing  about  him,  you  understand — but 
he  frightens  me.  I  tremble  to  think  of  taking  his  arm, 
of  talking  to  him,  of  being  his  wife.  Just  think  even 
of  saying  thou  to  him!" 

"But  married  people  don't  say  thou  to  each  other 
nowadays,"  said  Jacqueline,  "it  is  considered  vulgar." 

"But  I  shall  have  to  call  him  by  his  Christian 
name!" 

"What  is  Monsieur  de  Talbrun's  Christian  name?" 

"Oscar." 

"Humph!  That  is  not  a  "ery  pretty  name,  but  you 
could  get  over  the  difficulty — you  could  say  mon  ami. 
After  all,  your  sorrows  are  less  than  mine." 

"Poor  Jacqueline!"  said  Giselle,  her  soft  hazel  eyes 
moist  with  sympathy. 

"I  have  lost  at  one  blow  all  my  illusions,  and  I  have 
made  a  horrible  discovery,  that  it  would  be  wicked  to 
tell  to  any  one — you  understand — not  even  to  my  con- 
fessor." 

"  Heavens !  but  you  could  tell  your  mother ! " 

"You  forget,  I  have  no  mother,"  replied  Jacqueline 
in  a  tone  which  frightened  her  friend:  "I  had  a  dear 
mamma  once,  but  she  would  enter  less  than  any  one 
into  my  sorrows;  and  as  to  my  father — it  would  make 
things  worse  to  speak  to  him,"  she  added,  clasping 
her  hands.  "  Have  you  ever  read  any  novels,  Giselle  ?  " 

[95] 


THfiO  BENTZON 

"Hem!"  said  the  discreet  voice  of  the  nun,  by  way 
of  warning. 

"Two  or  three  by  Walter  Scott." 

"Oh!  then  you  can  imagine  nothing  like  what  I 
could  tell  you — How  horrid  that  nun  is,  she  stops 
always  as  she  comes  near  us!  Why  can't  she  do  as 
Modeste  does,  and  leave  us  to  talk  by  ourselves?" 

It  seemed  indeed  as  if  the  Argus  in  a  black  veil  had 
overheard  part  of  this  conversation,  not  perhaps  the 
griefs  of  Jacqueline,  which  were  not  very  intelligible, 
but  some  of  the  words  spoken  by  Giselle,  for,  drawing 
near  her,  she  said,  gently:  "We,  too,  shall  all  grieve  to 
lose  you,  my  dearest  child;  but  remember  one  can  serve 
God  anywhere,  and  save  one's  soul — in  the  world  as 
well  as  in  a  convent."  And  she  passed  on,  giving  a 
kind  smile  to  Jacqueline,  whom  she  knew,  having  seen 
her  several  times  in  the  convent  parlor,  and  whom  she 
thought  a  nice  girl,  notwithstanding  what  she  called 
her  "fly-away  airs" — "the  airs  they  acquire  from  mod- 
ern education,"  she  said  to  herself,  with  a  sigh. 

"Those  poor  ladies  would  have  us  think  of  nothing 
but  a  future  life,"  said  Jacqueline,  shrugging  her 
shoulders. 

"We  ought  to  think  of  it  first  of  all,"  said  Giselle, 
who  had  become  serious.  "Sometimes  I  think  my 
place  should  have  been  among  these  ladies  who  have 
brought  me  up.  They  are  so  good,  and  they  seem  to 
be  so  happy.  Besides,  do  you  know,  I  stand  less  in 
awe  of  them  than  I  do  of  my  grandmother.  When 
grandmamma  orders  me  I  never  shall  dare  to  object, 
even  if — But  you  must  think  me  very  selfish,  my  poor 

[96] 


JACQUELINE 

Jacqueline!  I  am  talking  only  of  myself.  Do  you 
know  what  you  ought  to  do  as  you  go  away?  You 
should  go  into  the  chapel,  and  pray  with  all  your  heart 
for  me,  that  I  may  be  brought  in  safety  through  my 
troubles  about  which  I  have  told  you,  and  I  will  do 
the  same  for  yours,  about  which  you  have  not  told  me. 
An  exchange  of  prayers  is  the  best  foundation  for  a 
friendship,"  she  added;  for  Giselle  had  many  little 
convent  maxims  at  her  fingers'  ends,  to  which,  when 
she  uttered  them,  her  sincerity  of  look  and  tone  gave 
a  personal  meaning. 

"You  are  right,"  said  Jacqueline,  much  moved. 
"It  has  done  me  good  to  see  you.  Take  this  choco- 
late." 

"And  you  must  take  this,"  said  Giselle,  giving  her 
a  little  illuminated  card,  with  sacred  words  and  sym- 
bols. 

"Adieu,  dearest — say,  have  you  ever  detested  any 
one?" 

"Never!"  cried  Giselle,  with  horror. 

"Well!  I  do  detest — detest—  You  are  right,  I 
will  go  into  the  chapel.  I  need  some  exorcism." 

And  laughing  at  her  use  of  this  last  word — the  same 
little  mirthless  laugh  that  she  had  uttered  before— 
Jacqueline  went  away,  followed  by  the  admiring 
glances  of  the  other  girls,  who  from  behind  the  bars 
of  their  cage  noted  the  brilliant  plumage  of  this  bird 
who  was  at  liberty.  She  crossed  the  courtyard,  and, 
followed  by  Modeste,  entered  the  chapel,  where  she 
sank  upon  her  knees.  The  mystic  half-light  of  the 
place,  tinged  purple  by  its  passage  through  the  stained- 
7  [97] 


THfiO  BENTZON 

windows,  seemed  to  enlarge  the  little  chancel,  parted 
in  two  by  a  double  grille,  behind  which  the  nuns  could 
hear  the  service  without  being  seen. 

The  silence  was  so  deep  that  the  low  murmur  of  a 
prayer  could  now  and  then  be  heard.  The  worship- 
ers might  have  fancied  themselves  a  hundred  leagues 
from  all  the  noises  of  the  world,  which  seemed  to  die 
out  when  they  reached  the  convent  walls. 

Jacqueline  read,  and  re-read  mechanically,  the  words 
printed  in  letters  of  gold  on  the  little  card  Giselle  had 
given  her.  It  was  a  symbolical  picture,  and  very  ugly; 
but  the  words  were:  "Oh!  that  I  had  wings  like  a 
dove,  for  then  would  I  flee  away  and  be  at  rest." 

"Wings!"  she  repeated,  with  vague  aspiration.  The 
aspiration  seemed  to  disengage  her  from  herself,  and 
from  this  earth,  which  had  nothing  more  to  offer  her. 
Ah!  how  far  away  was  now  the  time  when  she  had 
entered  churches,  full  of  happiness  and  hope,  to  offer 
a  candle  that  her  prayer  might  be  granted,  which  she 
felt  sure  it  would  be!  All  was  vanity!  As  she  gazed 
at  the  grille,  behind  which  so  many  women,  whose 
worldly  lives  had  been  cut  short,  now  lived,  safe  from 
the  sorrows  and  temptations  of  this  world,  Jacqueline 
seemed  for  the  first  time  to  understand  why  Giselle 
regretted  that  she  might  not  share  forever  the  blessed 
peace  enjoyed  in  the  convent.  A  torpor  stole  over  her, 
caused  by  the  dimness,  the  faint  odor  of  the  incense, 
and  the  solemn  silence.  She  imagined  herself  in  the 
act  of  giving  up  the  world.  She  saw  herself  in  a  veil, 
with  her  eyes  raised  to  Heaven,  very  pale,  standing 
behind  the  grille.  She  would  have  to  cut  off  her  hair. 

[98] 


JACQUELINE 

That  seemed  hard,  but  she  would  make  the  sacrifice. 
She  would  accept  anything,  provided  the  ungrateful 
pair,  whom  she  would  not  name,  could  feel  sorrow  for 
her  loss — maybe  even  remorse.  Full  of  these  ideas, 
which  certainly  had  little  in  common  with  the  feelings 
of  those  who  seek  to  forgive  those  who  trespass  against 
them,  Jacqueline  continued  to  imagine  herself  a  Bene- 
dictine sister,  under  the  soothing  influence  of  her  sur- 
roundings, just  as  she  had  mistaken  the  effects  of 
physical  weakness  when  she  was  ill  for  a  desire  to  die. 
Such  feelings  were  the  result  of  a  void  which  the  whole 
universe,  as  she  thought,  never  could  fill,  but  it  was 
really  a  temporary  vacuum,  like  that  caused  by  the 
loss  of  a  first  tooth.  These  teeth  come  out  with  the 
first  jar,  and  nature  intends  them  to  be  speedily  re- 
placed by  others,  much  more  permanent;  but  children 
cry  when  they  are  pulled  out,  and  fancy  they  are  in 
very  tight.  Perhaps  they  suffer,  after  all,  nearly  as 
much  as  they  think  they  do. 

"Mademoiselle!"  said  Modeste,  touching  her  on  the 
shoulder. 

"I  was  content  to  be  here,"  answered  Jacqueline, 
with  a  sigh.  "Do  you  know,  Modeste,"  she  went  on, 
when  they  got  out  of  doors,  "that  I  have  almost  made 
up  my  mind  to  be  a  nun.  What  do  you  say  to  that?" 

"Heaven  forbid!"  cried  the  old  nurse,  much  startled. 

"Life  is  so  hard,"  replied  her  young  mistress. 

"Not  for  you,  anyhow.  It  would  be  a  sin  to  say 
so." 

"Ah!  Modeste,  we  so  little  know  the  real  truth  of 
things — we  can  see  only  appearances.  Don't  you  think 

[99] 


BENTZON 

that  a  linen  band  over  my  forehead  would  be  very 
becoming  to  me?  I  should  look  like  Saint  Theresa." 

"And  what  would  be  the  good  of  your  looking  like 
Saint  Theresa,  when  there  would  be  nobody  to  tell  you 
so?"  said  Modeste,  with  the  practical  good-sense  that 
never  forsook  her.  "You  would  be  beautiful  for 
yourself  alone.  You  would  not  even  be  allowed  a 
looking-glass.  Just  talk  about  that  fancy  to  Mon- 
sieur— we  should  soon  see  what  he  would  say  to  such 
a  notion." 

M.  de  Nailles,  having  just  left  the  Chamber,  was 
crossing  the  Pont  de  la  Concorde  on  foot  at  this  mo- 
ment. His  daughter  ran  up  to  him,  and  caught  him 
by  the  arm.  They  walked  homeward  talking  of  very 
different  things  from  bolts  and  bars.  The  Baron,  who 
was  a  weak  man,  thought  in  his  heart  that  he  had  been 
too  severe  with  his  daughter  for  some  time  past.  As 
he  recalled  what  had  taken  place,  the  anger  of  Ma- 
dame de  Nailles  in  the  matter  of  the  picture  seemed  to 
him  to  have  been  extreme  and  unnecessary.  Jacque- 
line was  just  at  an  age  when  young  girls  are  apt  to 
be  nervous  and  impressionable;  they  had  been  wrong 
to  be  rough  with  one  who  was  so  sensitive.  His 
wife  was  quite  of  his  opinion,  she  acknowledged  (not 
wishing  him  to  think  too  much  on  the  subject)  that 
she  had  been  too  quick-tempered. 

"Yes,"  she  had  said,  frankly,  "I  am  jealous;  I  want 
things  to  myself.  I  own  I  was  angry  when  I  thought 
that  Jacqueline  was  about  to  throw  off  my  authority, 
and  hurt  when  I  found  she  was  capable  of  keeping 
up  a  concealment — when  I  believed  she  was  so  open 

[100] 


JACQUELINE 

always  with  me.  My  behavior  was  foolish,  I  acknowl- 
edge. But  what  can  we  do?  Neither  of  us  can  go 
and  ask  her  pardon  ?  " 

"Of  course  not,"  said  the  father,  "all  we  can  do  is 
to  treat  her  with  a  little  more  consideration  for  the 
future;  and,  with  your  permission,  I  shall  use  her 
illness  as  an  excuse  for  spoiling  her  a  little." 

"You  have  carte  blanche,  my  dear,  I  agree  to  every- 
thing." So  M.  de  Nailles,  with  his  daughter's  arm  in 
his,  began  to  spoil  her,  as  he  had  intended. 

"You  are  still  rather  pale,"  he  said,  "but  sea-bathing 
will  change  all  that.  Would  you  like  to  go  to  the  sea- 
side next  month?" 

Jacqueline  answered  with  a  little  incredulous  smile : 

"Oh,  certainly,  papa." 

"You  don't  seem  very  sure  about  it.  In  the  first 
place,  where  shall  we  go?  Your  mamma  seems  to 
fancy  Houlgate?" 

"Of  course  we  must  do  what  she  wishes,"  replied 
Jacqueline,  rather  bitterly. 

"But,  little  daughter,  what  would  you  like?  What 
do  you  say  to  Treport?" 

"I  should  like  Treport  very  much,  because  there  we 
should  be  near  Madame  d'Argy." 

Jacqueline  had  felt  much  drawn  to  Madame  d'Argy 
since  her  troubles,  for  she  had  been  the  nearest  friend 
of  her  own  mother — her  own  dead  mother,  too  long 
forgotten.  The  chateau  of  Madame  d'Argy,  called 
Lizerolles,  was  only  two  miles  from  Treport,  in  a 
charming  situation  on  the  road  to  St.  Vale"ry. 

"That's  the  very  thing,  then!"  said  M.  de  Nailles. 
[101] 


BENTZON 

"Fred  is  going  to  spend  a  month  at  Lizerolles  with  his 
mother.  You  might  ride  on  horseback  with  him.  He 
is  going  to  enjoy  a  holiday,  poor  fellow!  before  he  has 
to  be  sent  off  on  long  and  distant  voyages." 

"I  don't  know  how  to  ride,"  said  Jacqueline,  still 
in  the  tone  of  a  victim. 

"The  doctor  thinks  riding  would  be  good  for  you, 
and  you  have  time  enough  yet  to  take  some  lessons. 
Mademoiselle  Schult  could  take  you  nine  or  ten  times 
to  the  riding-school.  And  I  will  go  with  you  the  first 
time,"  added  M.  de  Nailles,  in  despair  at  not  having 
been  able  to  please  her.  "To-day  we  will  go  to  Black- 
fern's  and  order  a  habit — a  riding-habit! — Can  I  do 
more?" 

At  this,  as  if  by  magic,  whether  she  would  or  not, 
the  lines  of  sadness  and  sullenness  disappeared  from 
Jacqueline's  face;  her  eyes  sparkled.  She  gave  one 
more  proof,  that  to  every  Parisienne  worthy  of  the 
name,  the  two  pleasures  in  riding  are,  first  to  have  a 
perfectly  fitting  habit,  secondly,  to  have  the  oppor- 
tunity of  showing  how  pretty  she  can  be  after  a  new 
fashion. 

"Shall  we  go  to  Blackfern's  now?" 

"This  very  moment,  if  you  wish  it." 

"You  really  mean  Blackfern ?  Yvonne's  habit  came 
from  Blackfern's!"  Yvonne  d'Etaples  was  the  in- 
carnation of  chic — of  fashionable  elegance — in  Jacque- 
line's eyes.  Her  heart  beat  with  pleasure  when  she 
thought  how  Belle  and  Dolly  would  envy  her  when 
she  told  them:  "I  have  a  myrtle-green  riding-habit, 
just  like  Yvonne's."  She  danced  rather  than  walked 

[102] 


JACQUELINE 

as  they  went  together  to  Blackfern's.  A  habit  was 
much  nicer  than  a  long  gown. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  they  were  in  the  waiting- 
room,  where  the  last  creations  of  the  great  ladies' 
tailor,  were  displayed  upon  lay  figures,  among  sales- 
women and  essayeuses,  the  very  prettiest  that  could  be 
found  in  England  or  the  Batignolles,  chosen  because 
they  showed  off  to  perfection  anything  that  could  be 
put  upon  their  shoulders,  from  the  ugliest  to  the  most 
extravagant.  Deceived  by  the  unusual  elegance  of 
these  beautiful  figures,  ladies  who  are  neither  young 
nor  well-shaped  allow  themselves  to  be  beguiled  and 
cajoled  into  buying  things  not  suited  to  them.  Very 
seldom  does  a  hunchbacked  dowager  hesitate  to  put 
upon  her  shoulders  the  garment  that  draped  so  charm- 
ingly those  of  the  living  statue  hired  to  parade  be- 
fore her.  Jacqueline  could  not  help  laughing  as  she 
watched  this  way  of  hunting  larks;  and  thought  the 
mirror  might  have  warned  them,  like  a  scarecrow, 
rather  than  have  tempted  them  into  the  snare. 

The  head  tailor  of  the  establishment  made  them 
wait  long  enough  to  allow  the  pretty  showgirls  to  ac- 
complish their  work  of  temptation.  They  fascinated 
Jacqueline's  father  by  their  graces  and  their  glances, 
while  at  the  same  time  they  warbled  into  his  daughter's 
ear,  with  a  slightly  foreign  accent:  "That  would  be  so 
becoming  to  Mademoiselle." 

For  ladies  going  to  the  seaside  there  were  things  of 
the  most  exquisite  simplicity:  this  white  fur,  trimmed 
with  white  velvet,  for  instance;  that  jacket  like  the 
uniform  of  a  naval  officer  with  a  cap  to  match — "All 

[103] 


BENTZON 

to  please  Fred,"  said  Jacqueline,  laughing.  M.  de 
Nailles,  while  they  waited  for  the  tailor,  chose  two 
costumes  quite  as  original  as  those  of  Mademoiselle 
d'Etaples,  which  delighted  Jacqueline  all  the  more, 
because  she  thought  it  probable  they  would  displease 
her  stepmother.  At  last  the  magnificent  personage,  his 
face  adorned  with  luxuriant  whiskers,  appeared  with 
the  bow  of  a  great  artist  or  a  diplomatist ;  took  Jacque- 
line's measure  as  if  he  were  fulfilling  some  important 
function,  said  a  few  brief  words  to  his  secretary,  and 
then  disappeared;  the  group  of  English  beauties  say- 
ing in  chorus  that  Mademoiselle  might  come  back  that 
day  week  and  try  it  on. 

Accordingly,  a  week  later  Jacqueline,  seated  on  the 
wooden  horse  used  for  this  purpose,  had  the  satisfac- 
tion of  assuring  herself  that  her  habit,  fitting  marvel- 
lously to  her  bust,  showed  not  a  wrinkle,  any  more 
than  a  gant  de  Suede  shows  on  the  hand ;  it  was  closely 
fitted  to  a  figure  not  yet  fully  developed,  but  which  the 
creator  of  the  chef-d'oeuvre  deigned  to  declare  was 
faultless.  Usually,  he  said,  he  recommended  his  cus- 
tomers to  wear  a  certain  corset  of  a  special  cut,  with 
elastic  material  over  the  hips  covered  by  satin  that 
matched  the  riding-habit,  but  at  Mademoiselle's  age, 
and  so  supple  as  she  was,  the  corset  was  not  necessary. 
In  short,  the  habit  was  fashioned  to  perfection,  and 
fitted  like  her  skin  to  her  little  flexible  figure.  In  her 
close-fitting  petticoat,  her  riding-trousers  and  nothing 
else,  Jacqueline  felt  herself  half  naked,  though  she  was 
buttoned  up  to  her  throat.  She  had  taken  an  attitude 
on  her  wooden  horse  such  as  might  have  been  envied 

[104! 


JACQUELINE 

by  an  accomplished  equestrienne,  her  elbows  held  well 
back,  her  shoulders  down,  her  chest  expanded,  her 
right  leg  over  the  pommel,  her  left  foot  in  the  stirrup, 
and  never  after  did  any  real  gallop  give  her  the  same 
delight  as  this  imaginary  ride  on  an  imaginary  horse, 
she  looking  at  herself  with  entire  satisfaction  all  the 
time  in  an  enormous  cheval-glass. 


[105] 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE   BLUE   BAND 

[OVE,  like  any  other  human  malady, 
should  be  treated  according  to  the 
age  and  temperament  of  the  sufferer. 
Madame  de  Nailles,  who  was  a  very 
keen  observer,  especially  where  her 
own  interests  were  concerned,  lent 
herself  with  the  best  possible  grace 
to  everything  that  might  amuse  and 
distract  Jacqueline,  of  whom  she  had  by  this  time 
grown  afraid.  Not  that  she  now  dreaded  her  as  a 
rival.  The  attitude  of  coldness  and  reserve  that  the 
young  girl  had  adopted  in  her  intercourse  with  Marien, 
her  stepmother  could  see,  was  no  evidence  of  coquetry. 
She  showed,  in  her  behavior  to  the  friend  of  the  family, 
a  freedom  from  embarrassment  which  was  new  to  her, 
and  a  frigidity  which  could  not  possibly  have  been 
assumed  so  persistently.  No!  what  struck  Madame 
de  Nailles  was  the  suddenness  of  this  transformation. 
Jacqueline  evidently  took  no  further  interest  in  Marien ; 
she  had  apparently  no  longer  any  affection  for  herself 
— she,  who  had  been  once  her  dear  little  mamma, 
whom  she  had  loved  so  tenderly,  now  felt  herself  to  be 
considered  only  as  a  stepmother.  Fraulein  Schult,  too, 
received  no  more  confidences.  What  did  it  all  mean  ? 

[106] 


JACQUELINE 

Had  Jacqueline,  through  any  means,  discovered  a 
secret,  which,  in  her  hands,  might  be  turned  into  a 
most  dangerous  weapon?  She  had  a  way  of  saying 
before  the  guilty  pair:  "Poor  papa!"  with  an  air  of 
pity,  as  she  kissed  him,  which  made  Madame  de 
Nailles's  flesh  creep,  and  sometimes  she  would  amuse 
herself  by  making  ambiguous  remarks  which  shot 
arrows  of  suspicion  into  a  heart  already  afraid.  "I 
feel  sure,"  thought  the  Baroness,  "that  she  has  found 
out  everything.  But,  no!  it  seems  impossible.  How 
can  I  discover  what  she  knows?" 

Jacqueline's  revenge  consisted  in  leaving  her  step- 
mother in  doubt.  She  more  than  suspected,  not  with- 
out cause,  that  Fraulein  Schult  was  false  to  her,  and 
had  the  wit  to  baffle  all  the  clever  questions  of  her 
promeneuse. 

"My  worship  of  a  man  of  genius — a  great  artist? 
Oh!  that  has  all  come  to  an  end  since  I  have  found 
out  that  his  devotion  belongs  to  an  elderly  lady  with 
a  fair  complexion  and  light  hair.  I  am  only  sorry 
for  him." 

Jacqueline  had  great  hopes  that  these  cruel  words 
would  be  reported — as  they  were— to  her  stepmother, 
and,  of  course,  they  did  not  mitigate  the  Baroness's 
uneasiness.  Madame  de  Nailles  revenged  herself  for 
this  insult  by  dismissing  the  innocent  echo  of  the  im- 
pertinence— of  course,  under  some  plausible  pretext. 
She  felt  it  necessary  also  to  be  very  cautious  how  she 
treated  the  enemy  whom  she  was  forced  to  shelter 
under  her  own  roof.  Her  policy — a  policy  imposed 
on  her  by  force  of  circumstances — was  one  of  great 

[107] 


BENTZON 

indulgence  and  consideration,  so  that  Jacqueline,  soon 
feeling  that  she  was  for  the  present  under  no  control, 
took  the  bit  between  her  teeth.  No  other  impression 
can  adequately  convey  an  idea  of  the  sort  of  fury  with 
which  she  plunged  into  pleasure  and  excitement,  a 
state  of  mind  which  apparently,  without  any  transition, 
succeeded  her  late  melancholy.  She  had  done  with 
sentiment,  she  thought,  forever.  She  meant  to  be 
practical  and  positive,  a  little  Parisienne,  and  "in  the 
swim."  There  were  plenty  of  examples  among  those 
she  knew  that  she  could  follow.  Berthe,  Helene,  and 
Claire  Wermant  were  excellent  leaders  in  that  sort  of 
thing.  Those  three  daughters  of  the  agent  de  change 
were  at  this  time  at  Treport,  in  charge  of  a  governess, 
who  let  them  do  whatever  they  pleased,  subject  only 
to  be  scolded  by  their  father,  who  came  down  every 
Saturday  to  Treport,  on  that  train  that  was  called  the 
train  des  maris.  They  had  made  friends  with  two  or 
three  American  girls,  who  were  called  "fast,"  and 
Jacqueline  was  soon  enrolled  in  the  ranks  of  that  gay 
company. 

The  cure  that  was  begun  on  the  wooden  horse  at 
Blackfern's  was  completed  on  the  sea-shore. 

The  girls  with  whom  she  now  associated  were  nine 
or  ten  little  imps  of  Satan,  who,  with  their  hair  flying 
in  the  wind  and  their  caps  over  one  ear,  made  the  quiet 
beach  ring  with  their  boy-like  gayety.  They  were 
called  "the  Blue  Band,"  because  of  a  sort  of  uniform 
that  they  adopted.  We  speak  of  them  intentionally  as 
masculine,  and  not  feminine,  because  what  is  mascu- 
line best  suited  their  appearance  and  behavior,  for, 

[108] 


JACQUELINE 

though  all  could  flirt  like  coquettes  of  experience,  they 
were  more  like  boys  than  girls,  if  judged  by  their  age 
and  their  costume. 

These  Blues  lived  close  to  one  another  on  that 
avenue  that  is  edged  with  chdlets,  cottages,  and  villas, 
whose  lower  floors  are  abundantly  provided  with  great 
glass  windows,  which  seem  to  let  the  ocean  into  their 
very  rooms,  as  well  as  to  lay  bare  everything  that  passes 
in  them  to  the  public  eye,  as  frankly  as  if  their  inmates 
bivouacked  in  the  open  street.  Nothing  was  private; 
neither  the  meals,  nor  the  coming  and  going  of  visi- 
tors. It  must  be  said,  however,  that  the  inhabitants 
of  these  glass  houses  were  very  seldom  at  home.  Bath- 
ing, and  croquet,  or  tennis,  at  low  water,  on  the  sands, 
searching  for  shells,  fishing  with  nets,  dances  at  the 
Casino,  little  family  dances  alternating  with  concerts, 
to  which  even  children  went  till  nine  o'clock,  would 
seem  enough  to  fill  up  the  days  of  these  young  people, 
but  they  had  also  to  make  boating  excursions  to  Cayeux, 
Crotoy,  and  Hourdel,  besides  riding  parties  in  the  beau- 
tiful country  that  surrounded  the  Chateau  of  Lizerolles, 
where  they  usually  dismounted  on  their  return. 

At  Lizerolles  they  were  received  by  Madame  d'Argy, 
who  was  delighted  that  they  provided  safe  amusement 
for  her  son,  who  appeared  in  the  midst  of  this  group  of 
half-grown  girls  like  a  young  cock  among  the  hens  of 
his  harem.  Frederic  d'Argy,  the  young  naval  officer, 
who  was  enjoying  his  holiday,  as  M.  de  Nailles  had 
said,  was  enjoying  it  exceedingly.  How  often,  long 
after,  on  board  the  ship  Flore,  as  he  paced  the  silent 
quarter-deckx  far  from  any  opportunity  of  flirting,  did 


BENTZON 

he  recall  the  forms  and  faces  of  these  young  girls,  some 
dark,  some  fair,  some  rosy — half-women  and  half- 
children,  who  made  much  of  him,  and  scolded  him, 
and  teased  him,  and  contended  for  his  attentions, 
while  no  better  could  be  had,  on  purpose  to  tease  one 
another.  Oh!  what  a  delightful  time  he  had  had! 
They  did  not  leave  him  to  himself  one  moment.  He 
had  to  lift  them  into  their  saddles,  to  assist  them  as 
they  clambered  over  the  rocks,  to  superintend  their 
attempts  at  swimming,  to  dance  with  them  all  by  turns, 
and  to  look  after  them  in  the  difficult  character  of 
Mentor,  for  he  was  older  than  they,  and  were  they  not 
entrusted  to  his  care?  What  a  serious  responsibility! 
Had  not  Mentor  even  found  himself  too  often  timid 
and  excited  when  one  little  firm  foot  was  placed  in  his 
hand,  when  his  arm  was  round  one  little  waist,  when 
he  could  render  her  as  a  cavalier  a  thousand  little 
services,  or  accept  with  gladness  the  role  of  her  con- 
soler. He  did  everything  he  could  think  of  to  please 
them,  finding  all  of  them  charming,  though  Jacqueline 
never  ceased  to  be  the  one  he  preferred,  a  preference 
which  she  might  easily  have  inferred  from  the  poor 
lad's  unusual  timidity  and  awkwardness  when  he  was 
brought  into  contact  with  her.  But  she  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  his  devotion,  accepting  himself  and  all  he  did 
for  her  as,  in  some  sort,  her  personal  property. 

He  was  of  no  consequence,  he  did  not  count;  what 
was  he  but  her  comrade  and  former  playfellow  ? 

Happily  for  Fred,  he  took  pleasure  in  the  familiarity 
with  which  she  treated  him — a  familiarity  which,  had 
he  known  it,  was  not  flattering.  He  was  in  the  seventh 

[no] 


JACQUELINE 

heaven  for  a  whole  fortnight,  during  which  he  was  tne 
recipient  of  more  dried  flowers  and  bows  of  ribbon  than 
he  ever  got  in  all  the  rest  of  his  life — the  American 
girls  were  very  fond  of  giving  keepsakes — but  then  his 
star  waned.  He  was  no  longer  the  only  one.  The 
grown-up  brother  of  the  Wermants  came  to  Tr£port— 
Raoul,  with  his  air  of  a  young  man  about  town — a 
boulevardier,  with  his  jacket  cut  in  the  latest  fashion, 
with  his  cockle-shell  of  a  boat,  which  he  managed  as 
well  on  salt  water  as  on  fresh,  sculling  with  his  arms 
bare,  a  cigarette  in  his  mouth,  a  monocle  in  his  eye, 
and  a  pith-helmet,  such  as  is  worn  in  India.  The 
young  ladies  used  to  gather  on  the  sands  to  watch  him 
as  he  struck  the  water  with  the  broad  blade  of  his 
scull,  near  enough  for  them  to  see  and  to  admire  his 
nautical  ability.  They  thought  all  his  jokes  amusing, 
and  they  delighted  in  his  way  of  seizing  his  partner 
for  a  waltz  and  bearing  her  off  as  if  she  were  a  prize, 
hardly  allowing  her  to  touch  the  floor. 

Fred  thought  him,  with  his  stock  of  old  jokes,  very 
ill-mannered.  He  laughed  at  his  sculling,  and  had  a 
great  mind  to  strike  him  after  he  saw  him  waltzing 
with  Jacqueline.  But  he  had  to  acknowledge  the  gen- 
eral appreciation  felt  for  the  fellow  whom  he  called 
vulgar. 

Raoul  Wermant  did  not  stay  long  at  Treport.  He 
had  only  come  to  see  his  sisters  on  his  way  to  Dieppe, 
where  he  expected  to  meet  a  certain  Leah  Skip,  an 
actress  from  the  Nouveautes.  If  he  kept  her  waiting, 
however,  for  some  days,  it  was  because  he  was  loath 
to  leave  the  handsome  Madame  de  Villegry,  who  was 

[in] 


BENTZON 

living  near  her  friend  Madame  de  Nailles,  recruiting 
herself  after  the  fatigues  of  the  winter  season.  Such 
being  the  situation,  the  young  girls  of  the  Blue  Band 
might  have  tried  in  vain  to  make  any  impression  upon 
him.  But  the  hatred  with  which  he  inspired  Fred 
found  some  relief  in  the  composition  of  fragments  of 
melancholy  verse,  which  the  young  midshipman  hid 
under  his  mattresses.  It  is  not  an  uncommon  thing 
for  naval  men  to  combine  a  love  of  the  sea  with  a  love 
of  poetry.  Fred's  verses  were  not  good,  but  they  were 
full  of  dejection.  The  poor  fellow  compared  Raoul 
Wermant  to  Faust,  and  himself  to  Siebel.  He  spoke 
of 

The  youth  whose  eyes  were  brimming  with  salt  tears, 
Whose  heart  was  troubled  by  a  thousand  fears, 
Poor  slighted  lover! — since  in  his  heavy  heart 
All  his  illusions  perish  and  depart. 

Again,  he  wrote  of  Siebel: 

O  Siebel! — thine  is  but  the  common  fate! 
They  told  thee  Fortune  upon  youth  would  wait; 
'Tis  false  when  love's  in  question — and  you  may 


Here  he  enumerated  all  the  proofs  of  tenderness 
possible  for  a  woman  to  give  her  lover,  and  then  he 
added: 

You  may  know  all,  poor  Siebel! — all,  some  day, 
When  weary  of  this  life  and  all  its  dreams, 
You  learn  to  know  it  is  not  what  it  seems; 
When  there  is  nothing  that  can  cheer  you  more, 
All  that  remains  is  fondly  to  adore! 

[112] 


JACQUELINE 

And  after  trying  in  vain  to  find  a  rhyme  for  lover, 
he  cried: 

Oh!  tell  me — if  one  grief  exceeds  another — 
Is  not  this  worst,  to  feel  mere  friendship  moves 
To  cruel  kindness  the  dear  girl  he  loves? 

Fred's  mother  surprised  him  one  night  while  he  was 
watering  with  his  tears  the  ink  he  was  putting  to  so 
sorry  a  use.  She  had  been  aware  that  he  sat  up  late 
at  night — his  sleeplessness  was  not  the  insomnia  of 
genius — for  she  had  seen  the  glare  of  light  from  his 
little  lamp  burning  later  than  the  usual  bedtime  of  the 
chdteau,  in  one  of  the  turret  chambers  at  Lizerolles. 

In  vain  Fred  denied  that  he  was  doing  anything,  in 
vain  he  tried  to  put  his  papers  out  of  sight ;  his  mother 
was  so  persuasive  that  at  last  he  owned  everything  to 
her,  and  in  addition  to  the  comfort  he  derived  from 
his  confession,  he  gained  a  certain  satisfaction  to  his 
amour-propre,  for  Madame  d'Argy  thought  the  verses 
beautiful.  A  mother's  geese  are  always  swans.  But 
it  was  only  when  she  said,  "I  don't  see  why  you  should 
not  marry  your  Jacqueline — such  a  thing  is  not  by  any 
means  impossible,"  and  promised  to  do  all  in  her  power 
to  insure  his  happiness,  that  Fred  felt  how  dearly  he 
loved  his  mother.  Oh,  a  thousand  times  more  than  he 
had  ever  supposed  he  loved  her!  However,  he  had  not 
yet  done  with  the  agonies  that  lie  in  wait  for  lovers. 

Madame  de  Monredon  arrived  one  day  at  the  Hotel 
de  la  Plage,  accompanied  by  her  granddaughter,  whom 
she  had  taken  away  from  the  convent  before  the  be- 
ginning of  the  holidays.  Since  she  had  fully  arranged 
8  H 


TH^O  BENTZON 

the  marriage  with  M.  de  Talbrun,  it  seemed  important 
that  Giselle  should  acquire  some  liveliness,  and  recruit 
her  health,  before  the  fatal  wedding-day  arrived.  M. 
de  Talbrun  liked  ladies  to  be  always  well  and  always 
lively,  and  it  was  her  duty  to  see  that  Giselle  accom- 
modated herself  to  his  taste;  sea-bathing,  life  in  the 
open  air,  and  merry  companions,  were  the  things  she 
needed  to  make  her  a  little  less  thin,  to  give  her  tone, 
and  to  take  some  of  her  convent  stiffness  out  of  her. 
Besides,  she  could  have  free  intercourse  with  her 
intended  husband,  thanks  to  the  greater  freedom  of 
manners  permitted  at  the  sea-side.  Such  were  the 
ideas  of  Madame  de  Monredon. 

Poor  Giselle!  In  vain  they  dressed  her  in  fine 
clothes,  in  vain  they  talked  to  her  and  scolded  her 
from  morning  till  night,  she  continued  to  be  the  little 
convent-bred  schoolgirl  she  had  always  been;  with 
downcast  eyes,  pale  as  a  flower  that  has  known  no 
sunlight,  and  timid  to  a  point  of  suffering.  M.  de 
Talbrun  frightened  her  as  much  as  ever,  and  she  had 
looked  forward  to  the  comfort  of  weeping  in  the  arms 
of  Jacqueline,  who,  the  last  time  she  had  seen  her, 
had  been  herself  so  unhappy.  But  what  was  her 
astonishment  to  find  the  young  girl,  who,  a  few  weeks 
before,  had  made  her  such  tragic  confidences  through 
the  grille  in  the  convent  parlor,  transformed  into  a 
creature  bent  on  excitement  and  amusement.  When 
she  attempted  to  allude  to  the  subject  on  which  Jacque- 
line had  spoken  to  her  at  the  convent,  and  to  ask  her 
what  it  was  that  had  then  made  her  so  unhappy, 
Jacqueline  cried:  "Oh!  my  dear,  I  have  forgotten 

["4] 


JACQUELINE 

all  about  it!"  But  there  was  exaggeration  in  this 
profession  of  forgetfulness,  and  she  hurriedly  drew 
Giselle  back  to  the  game  of  croquet,  where  they  were 
joined  by  M.  de  Talbrun. 

The  future  husband  of  Giselle  was  a  stout  young 
fellow,  short  and  thick-set,  with  broad  shoulders,  a  large 
flat  face,  and  strong  jaws,  ornamented  with  an  enor- 
mous pair  of  whiskers,  which  partly  compensated  him 
for  a  loss  of  hair.  He  had  never  done  anything  but 
shoot  and  hunt  over  his  property  nine  months  in  the 
year,  and  spend  the  other  three  months  in  Paris,  where 
the  Jockey  Club  and  ballet-dancers  sufficed  for  his 
amusement.  He  did  not  pretend  to  be  a  man  whose 
bachelor  life  had  been  altogether  blameless,  but  he 
considered  himself  to  be  a  "correct"  man,  according 
to  what  he  understood  by  that  expression,  which  im- 
plied neither  talents,  virtues,  nor  good  manners; 
nevertheless,  all  the  Blue  Band  agreed  that  he  was 
a  finished  type  of  gentlemanhood.  Even  Raoul's 
sisters  had  to  confess,  with  a  certain  disgust,  that, 
whatever  people  may  say,  in  our  own  day  the  aris- 
tocracy of  wealth  has  to  lower  its  flag  before  the 
authentic  quarterings  of  the  old  noblesse.  They  se- 
cretly envied  Giselle  because  she  was  going  to  be  a 
grande  dame,  while  all  the  while  they  asserted  that 
old-fashioned  distinctions  had  no  longer  any  meaning. 
Nevertheless,  they  looked  forward  to  the  day  when 
they,  too,  might  take  their  places  in  the  Faubourg 
St.  Germain.  One  may  purchase  that  luxury  with 
a  fortune  of  eight  hundred  thousand  francs. 

The  croquet-ground,  which  was  under  water  at  high 
["5] 


THfiO  BENTZON 

tide,  was  a  long  stretch  of  sand  that  fringed  the  shingle. 
Two  parties  were  formed,  in  which  care  was  taken  to 
make  both  sides  as  nearly  equal  as  possible,  after  which 
the  game  began,  with  screams,  with  laughter,  a  little 
cheating  and  some  disputes,  as  is  the  usual  custom. 
All  this  appeared  to  amuse  Oscar  de  Talbrun  exceed- 
ingly. For  the  first  time  during  his  wooing  he  was 
not  bored.  The  Misses  Sparks — Kate  and  Nora — by 
their  "high  spirits"  agreeably  reminded  him  of  one  or 
two  excursions  he  had  made  in  past  days  into  Bohe- 
mian society. 

He  formed  the  highest  opinion  of  Jacqueline  when 
he  saw  how  her  still  short  skirts  showed  pretty  striped 
silk  stockings,  and  how  her  well-shaped  foot  was 
planted  firmly  on  a  blue  ball,  when  she  was  preparing 
to  roquer  the  red  one.  The  way  in  which  he  fixed  his 
eyes  upon  her  gave  great  offense  to  Fred,  and  did  it 
not  alarm  and  shock  Giselle  ?  No !  Giselle  looked  on 
calmly  at  the  fun  and  talk  around  her,  as  unmoved 
as  the  stump  of  a  tree,  spoiling  the  game  sometimes  by 
her  ignorance  or  her  awkwardness,  well  satisfied  that 
M.  de  Talbrun  should  leave  her  alone.  Talking  with 
him  was  very  distasteful  to  her. 

"You  have  been  more  stupid  than  usual,"  had  been 
what  her  grandmother  had  never  failed  to  say  to  her 
in  Paris  after  one  of  his  visits,  which  he  alternated 
with  bouquets.  But  at  Treport  no  one  seemed  to 
mind  her  being  stupid,  and  indeed  M.  de  Talbrun 
hardly  thought  of  her  existence,  up  to  the  moment 
when  they  were  all  nearly  caught  by  the  first  wave 
that  came  rolling  in  over  the  croquet-ground,  when 

[116] 


JACQUELINE 

all  the  girls  took  flight,  flushed,  animated,  and  with 
lively  gesticulation,  while  the  gentlemen  followed 
with  the  box  into  which  had  been  hastily  flung  hoops, 
balls,  and  mallets. 

On  their  way  Count  Oscar  condescendingly  ex- 
plained to  Fred,  as  to  a  novice,  that  the  only  good 
thing  about  croquet  was  that  it  brought  men  and 
girls  together.  He  was  himself  very  good  at  games, 
he  said,  having  remarkably  firm  muscles  and  excep- 
tionally sharp  sight;  but  he  went  on  to  add  that  he 
had  not  been  able  to  show  what  he  could  do  that  day. 
The  wet  sand  did  not  make  so  good  a  croquet-ground 
as  the  one  he  had  had  made  in  his  park!  It  is  a  good 
thing  to  know  one's  ground  in  all  circumstances,  but 
especially  in  playing  croquet.  Then,  dexterously  pass- 
ing from  the  game  to  the  players,  he  went  on  to  say, 
under  cover  of  giving  Fred  a  warning,  that  a  man  need 
not  fear  going  too  far  with  those  girls  from  America — 
they  had  known  how  to  flirt  from  the  time  they  were 
born.  They  could  look  out  for  themselves,  they  had 
talons  and  beaks;  but  up  to  a  certain  point  they  were 
very  easy  to  get  on  with.  Those  other  players  were 
queer  little  things;  the  three  sisters  Wermant  were  not 
wanting  in  chic,  but,  hang  it! — the  sweetest  flower  of 
them  all,  to  his  mind,  was  the  tall  one,  the  dark  one- 
unripe  fruit  in  perfection!  "And  a  year  or  two  hence," 
added  M.  de  Talbrun,  with  all  the  self-confidence  of 
an  expert,  "every  one  will  be  talking  about  her  in  the 
world  of  society." 

Poor  Fred  kept  silent,  trying  to  curb  his  wrath. 
But  the  blood  mounted  to  his  temples  as  he  listened  to 

["7] 


THfeO  BENTZON 

these  remarks,  poured  into  his  ear  by  a  man  of  thirty- 
five,  between  puffs  of  his  cigar,  because  there  was 
nobody  else  to  whom  he  could  make  them.  But  they 
seemed  to  Fred  very  ill-mannered  and  ill-timed.  If 
he  had  not  dreaded  making  himself  absurd,  he  would 
gladly  have  stood  forth  as  the  champion  of  the  Sparks, 
the  Wermants,  and  all  the  other  members  of  the  Blue 
Band,  so  that  he  might  give  vent  to  the  anger  raging 
in  his  heart  on  hearing  that  odious  compliment  to 
Jacqueline.  Why  was  he  not  old  enough  to  marry 
her?  What  right  had  that  detestable  Talbrun  to  take 
notice  of  any  girl  but  his  fiancee  ?  If  he  himself  could 
marry  now,  his  choice  would  soon  be  made!  No 
doubt,  later — as  his  mother  had  said  to  him.  But 
would  Jacqueline  wait  ?  Everybody  was  beginning  to 
admire  her.  Somebody  would  carry  her  off — some- 
body would  cut  him  out  while  he  was  away  at  sea. 
Oh,  horrible  thought  for  a  young  lover! 

That  night,  at  the  Casino,  while  dancing  a  quadrille 
with  Giselle,  he  could  not  refrain  from  saying  to  her, 
"Don't  you  object  to  Monsieur  de  Talbrun's  dancing 
so  much  with  Jacqueline?" 

"Who? — I?"  she  cried,  astonished,  "I  don't  see 
why  he  should  not."  And  then,  with  a  faint  laugh, 
she  added:  "Oh,  if  she  would  only  take  him — and 
keep  him!" 

But  Madame  de  Monredon  kept  a  sharp  eye  upon 
M.  de  Talbrun.  "It  seems  to  me,"  she  said,  looking 
fixedly  into  the  face  of  her  future  grandson-in-law, 
"that  you  really  take  pleasure  in  making  children 
skip  about  with  you." 

[118] 


JACQUELINE 

"So  I  do,"  he  replied,  frankly  and  good-humoredly. 
"It  makes  me  feel  young  again." 

And  Madame  de  Monredon  was  satisfied.  She  was 
ready  to  admit  that  most  men  marry  women  who 
have  not  particularly  enchanted  them,  and  she  had 
brought  up  Giselle  with  all  those  passive  qualities, 
which,  together  with  a  large  fortune,  usually  suit  best 
with  a  mariage  de  convenance. 

Meantime  Jacqueline  piqued  herself  upon  her 
worldly  wisdom,  which  she  looked  upon  as  equal  to 
Madame  de  Monredon's,  since  the  terrible  event 
which  had  filled  her  mind  with  doubts.  She  thought 
M.  de  Talbrun  would  do  well  enough  for  a  husband, 
and  she  took  care  to  say  so  to  Giselle. 

"It  is  a  fact,"  she  told  her,  with  all  the  self-confi- 
dence of  large  experience,  "that  men  who  are  very 
fascinating  always  remain  bachelors.  That  is  proba- 
bly why  Monsieur  de  Cymier,  Madame  de  Villegry's 
handsome  cousin,  does  not  think  of  marrying." 

She  was  mistaken.  The  Comte  de  Cymier,  a  satel- 
lite who  revolved  around  that  star  of  beauty,  Madame 
de  Villegry,  had  been  by  degrees  brought  round  by 
that  lady  herself  to  thoughts  of  matrimony. 

Madame  de  Villegry,  notwithstanding  her  profuse 
use  of  henna  and  many  cosmetics,  which  was  always 
the  first  thing  to  strike  those  who  saw  her,  prided  her- 
self on  being  uncompromised  as  to  her  moral  character. 
There  are  some  women  who,  because  they  stop  short 
of  actual  vice,  consider  themselves  irreproachable. 
They  are  willing,  so  to  speak,  to  hang  out  the  bush, 
but  keep  no  tavern.  In  former  times  an  appearance 

[119] 


THfiO  BENTZON 

of  evil  was  avoided  in  order  to  cover  evil  deeds,  but 
at  present  there  are  those  who,  under  the  cover  of 
being  only  "fast,"  risk  the  appearance  of  evil. 

Madame  de  Villegry  was  what  is  sometimes  called 
a  "  prof essional  beauty."  She  devoted  many  hours 
daily  to  her  toilette,  she  liked  to  have  a  crowd  of  admir- 
ers around  her.  But  when  one  of  them  became  too 
troublesome,  she  got  rid  of  him  by  persuading  him  to 
marry.  She  had  before  this  proposed  several  young 
girls  to  Gerard  de  Cymier,  each  one  plainer  and  more 
insignificant  than  the  others.  It  was  to  tell  his  dear 
friend  that  the  one  she  had  last  suggested  was  posi- 
tively too  ugly  for  him,  that  the  young  attache  to  an 
embassy  had  come  down  to  the  sea-side  to  visit  her. 

The  day  after  his  arrival  he  was  sitting  on  the  shin- 
gle at  Madame  de  Villegry's  feet,  both  much  amused 
by  the  grotesque  spectacle  presented  by  the  bathers, 
who  exhibited  themselves  in  all  degrees  of  ugliness 
and  deformity.  Of  course  Madame  de  Villegry  did 
not  bathe,  being,  as  she  said,  too  nervous.  She  was 
sitting  under  a  large  parasol  and  enjoying  her  own 
superiority  over  those  wretched,  amphibious  creatures 
who  waddled  on  the  sands  before  her,  comparing 

Madame  X to  a  seal  and  Mademoiselle  Z to 

the  skeleton  of  a  cuttle-fish. 

"Well!  it  was  that  kind  of  thing  you  wished  me  to 
marry,"  said  M.  de  Cymier,  in  a  tone  of  resentment. 

"But,  my  poor  friend,  what  would  you  have?  All 
young  girls  are  like  that.  They  improve  when  they 
are  married." 

"If  one  could  only  be  sure." 


JACQUELINE 

"One  is  never  sure  of  anything,  especially  anything 
relating  to  young  girls.  One  can  not  say  that  they  do 
more  than  exist  till  they  are  married.  A  husband  has 
to  make  whatever  he  chooses  out  of  them.  You  are 
quite  capable  of  making  what  you  choose  of  your  wife. 
Take  the  risk,  then." 

"I  could  educate  her  as  to  morals — though,  I  must 
say,  I  am  not  much  used  to  that  kind  of  instruction; 
but  you  will  permit  me  to  think  that,  as  to  person, 
I  should  at  least  wish  to  see  a  rough  sketch  of  what 
I  may  expect  in  my  wife  before  my  marriage." 

At  that  moment,  a  girl  who  had  been  bathing  came 
out  of  the  water  a  few  yards  from  them;  the  elegant 
outline  of  her  slender  figure,  clad  in  a  bathing-suit  of 
white  flannel,  which  clung  to  her  closely,  was  thrown 
into  strong  relief  by  the  clear  blue  background  of  a 
summer  sky. 

"Tiens! — but  she  is  pretty!"  cried  Gerard,  breaking 
off  what  he  was  saying:  "And  she  is  the  first  pretty 
one  I  have  seen!" 

Madame  de  Villegry  took  up  her  tortoiseshell  opera- 
glasses,  which  were  fastened  to  her  waist,  but  already 
the  young  girl,  over  whose  shoulders  an  attentive  ser- 
vant had  flung  a  wrapper — a  peignoir -eponge — had  run 
along  the  board-walk  and  stopped  before  her,  with  a 
gay  "Good-morning!" 

"Jacqueline!"  said  Madame  de  Villegry.  "Well, 
my  dear  child,  did  you  find  the  water  pleasant?" 

"Delightful!"  said  the  young  girl,  giving  a  rapid 
glance  at  M.  de  Cymier,  who  had  risen. 

He  was  looking  at  her  with  evident  admiration,  an 


BENTZON 

admiration  at  which  she  felt  much  flattered.  She  was 
closely  wrapped  in  her  soft,  snow-white  peignoir,  bor- 
dered with  red,  above  which  rose  her  lovely  neck  and 
head.  She  was  trying  to  catch,  on  the  point  of  one 
little  foot,  one  of  her  bathing  shoes,  which  had  slipped 
from  her.  The  foot  which,  when  well  shod,  M.  de 
Talbrun,  through  his  eyeglass,  had  so  much  admired, 
was  still  prettier  without  shoe  or  stocking.  It  was  so 
perfectly  formed,  so  white,  with  a  little  pink  tinge  here 
and  there,  and  it  was  set  upon  so  delicate  an  ankle! 
M.  de  Cymier  looked  first  at  the  foot,  and  then  his 
glance  passed  upward  over  all  the  rest  of  the  young 
figure,  which  could  be  seen  clearly  under  the  clinging 
folds  of  the  wet  drapery.  Her  form  could  be  discerned 
from  head  to  foot,  though  nothing  was  uncovered  but 
the  pretty  little  arm  which  held  together  with  a  careless 
grace  the  folds  of  her  raiment.  The  eye  of  the  ex- 
perienced observer  ran  rapidly  over  the  outline  of  her 
figure,  till  it  reached  the  dark  head  and  the  brown 
hair,  which  rippled  in  little  curls  over  her  forehead. 
Her  complexion,  slightly  golden,  was  not  protected  by 
one  of  those  absurd  hats  which  many  bathers  place  on 
top  of  oiled  silk  caps  which  fit  them  closely.  Neither 
was  the  precaution  of  oiled  silk  wanted  to  protect  the 
thick  and  curling  hair,  now  sprinkled  with  great  drops 
that  shone  like  pearls  and  diamonds.  The  water,  in- 
stead of  plastering  her  hair  upon  her  temples,  had 
made  it  more  curly  and  more  fleecy,  as  it  hung  over 
her  dark  eyebrows,  which,  very  near  together  at  the 
nose,  gave  to  her  eyes  a  peculiar,  slightly  oblique  ex- 
pression. Her  teeth  were  dazzling,  and  were  displayed 

[122] 


JACQUELINE 

by  the  smile  which  parted  her  lips — lips  which  were, 
if  anything,  too  red  for  her  pale  complexion.  She 
closed  her  eyelids  now  and  then  to  shade  her  eyes  from 
the  too  blinding  sunlight.  Those  eyes  were  not  black, 
but  that  hazel  which  has  golden  streaks.  Though  only 
half  open,  they  had  quickly  taken  in  the  fact  that  the 
young  man  sitting  beside  Madame  de  Villegry  was 
very  handsome. 

As  she  went  on  with  a  swift  step  to  her  bathing- 
house,  she  drew  out  two  long  pins  from  her  back  hair, 
shaking  it  and  letting  it  fall  down  her  back  with  a 
slightly  impatient  and  imperious  gesture;  she  wished, 
probably,  that  it  might  dry  more  quickly. 

"The  devil!"  said  M.  de  Cymier,  watching  her  till 
she  disappeared  into  the  bathing-house.  "I  never 
should  have  thought  that  it  was  all  her  own!  There 
is  nothing  wanting  in  her.  That  is  a  young  creature 
it  is  pleasant  to  see." 

"Yes,"  said  Madame  de  Villegry,  quietly,  "she  will 
be  very  good-looking  when  she  is  eighteen." 

"Is  she  nearly  eighteen?" 

"She  is  and  she  is  not,  for  time  passes  so  quickly. 
A  girl  goes  to  sleep  a  child,  and  wakes  up  old  enough 
to  be  married.  Would  you  like  to  be  informed,  with- 
out loss  of  time,  as  to  her  fortune?" 

"Oh!  I  should  not  care  much  about  her  dot.  I  look 
out  first  for  other  things." 

"I  know,  of  course;  but  Jacqueline  de  Nailles  comes 
of  a  very  good  family." 

"Is  she  the  daughter  of  the  deputy?" 

"Yes,  his  only  daughter.  He  has  a  pretty  house  in 
[123] 


THEO  BENTZON 

the  Pare  Monceau  and  a  chateau  of  some  importance 
in  the  Haute- Vienne." 

"Very  good;  but,  I  repeat,  I  am  not  mercenary. 
Of  course,  if  I  should  marry,  I  should  like,  for  my 
wife's  sake,  to  live  as  well  as  a  married  man  as  I  have 
lived  as  a  bachelor." 

"Which  means  that  you  would  be  satisfied  with  a 
fortune  equal  to  your  own.  I  should  have  thought  you 
might  have  asked  more.  It  is  true  that  if  you  have 
been  suddenly  thunderstruck  that  may  alter  your  cal- 
culations— for  it  was  very  sudden,  was  it  not?  Venus 
rising  from  the  sea!" 

"Please  don't  exaggerate!  But  you  are  not  so  cruel, 
seeing  you  are  always  urging  me  to  marry,  as  to  wish 
me  to  take  a  wife  who  looks  like  a  fright  or  a  horror." 

"Heaven  preserve  me  from  any  such  wish!  I  should 
be  very  glad  if  my  little  friend  Jacqueline  were  destined 
to  work  your  reformation." 

"I  defy  the  most  careful  parent  to  find  anything 
against  me  at  this  moment,  unless  it  be  a  pla tonic 
devotion.  The  youth  of  Mademoiselle  de  Nailles  is  an 
advantage,  for  I  might  indulge  myself  in  that  till  we 
were  married,  and  then  I  should  settle  down  and  leave 
Paris,  where  nothing  keeps  me  but— 

"But  a  foolish  fancy,"  laughed  Madame  de  Villegry. 
"However,  in  return  for  your  madrigal,  accept  the  ad- 
vice of  a  friend.  The  Nailles  seem  to  me  to  be  pros- 
perous, but  everybody  in  society  appears  so,  and  one 
never  knows  what  may  happen  any  day.  You  would 
not  do  amiss  ft,  before  you  go  on,  you  were  to  talk  with 
Wermant,  the  agent  de  change,  who  has  a  considerable 

[124] 


JACQUELINE 

knowledge  of  the  business  affairs  of  Jacqueline's  father. 
He  could  tell  you  about  them  better  than  I  can." 

"Wermant  is  at  Treport,  is  he  not?  I  thought  I 
saw  him— 

"Yes,  he  is  here  till  Monday.  You  have  twenty- 
four  hours." 

"Do  you  really  think  I  am  in  such  a  hurry?" 

"Will  you  take  a  bet  that  by  this  time  to-morrow 
you  will  not  know  exactly  the  amount  of  her  dot  and 
the  extent  of  her  expectations?" 

"You  would  lose.  I  have  something  else  to  think  of 
— now  and  always." 

"What?"  she  said,  carelessly. 

"You  have  forbidden  me  ever  to  mention  it." 

Silence  ensued.  Then  Madame  de  Villegry  said, 
smiling : 

"I  suppose  you  would  like  me  to  present  you  this 
evening  to  my  friends  the  De  Nailles?" 

And  in  fact  they  all  met  that  evening  at  the  Casino, 
and  Jacqueline,  in  a  gown  of  scarlet  foulard,  which 
would  have  been  too  trying  for  any  other  girl,  seemed 
to  M.  de  Cymier  as  pretty  as  she  had  been  in  her  bath- 
ing-costume. Her  hair  was  not  dressed  high,  but  it  was 
gathered  loosely  together  and  confined  by  a  ribbon  of 
the  same  color  as  her  gown,  and  she  wore  a  little  sailor 
hat  besides.  In  this  costume  she  had  been  called  by 
M.  de  Talbrun  the  "Fra  Diavolo  of  the  Seas,"  and  she 
never  better  supported  that  part,  by  liveliness  and 
audacity,  than  she  did  that  evening,  when  she  made 
a  conquest  that  was  envied — wildly  envied — by  the 
three  Demoiselles  Wermant  and  the  two  Misses  Sparks, 

In*] 


TH^O  BENTZON 

for  the  handsome  Gerard,  after  his  first  waltz  with 
Madame  de  Villegry,  asked  no  one  to  be  his  partner 
but  Mademoiselle  de  Nailles. 

The  girls  whom  he  neglected  had  not  even  Fred  to 
fall  back  upon,  for  Fred,  the  night  before,  had  received 
orders  to  join  his  ship.  He  had  taken  leave  of  Jacque- 
line with  a  pang  in  his  heart  which  he  could  hardly 
hide,  but  to  which  no  keen  emotion  on  her  part  seemed 
to  respond.  However,  at  least,  he  was  spared  the  un- 
happiness  of  seeing  the  star  of  De  Cymier  rising  above 
the  horizon. 

"If  he  could  only  see  me,"  thought  Jacqueline,  waltz- 
ing in  triumph  with  M.  de  Cymier.  "If  he  could  only 
see  me  I  should  be  avenged." 

But  he  was  not  Fred.  She  was  not  giving  him  a 
thought.  It  was  the  last  flash  of  resentment  and 
hatred  that  came  to  her  in  that  moment  of  triumph, 
adding  to  it  a  touch  of  exquisite  enjoyment. 

Thus  she  performed  the  obsequies  of  her  first  love! 

Not  long  after  this  M.  de  Nailles  said  to  his  wife: 

"Do  you  know,  my  dear,  that  our  little  Jacqueline 
is  very  much  admired  ?  Her  success  has  been  extraor- 
dinary. It  is  not  likely  she  will  die  an  old  maid." 

The  Baronne  assented  rather  reluctantly. 

"Wermant  was  speaking  to  me  the  other  day,"  went 
on  M.  de  Nailles.  "It  seems  that  that  young  Count 
de  Cymier,  who  is  always  hanging  around  you,  by  the 
way,  has  been  making  inquiries  of  him,  in  a  manner 
that  looks  as  it  it  had  some  meaning,  as  to  what  is  our 
fortune,  our  position.  But  really,  such  a  match  seems 
too  good  to  be  true." 

[126] 


JACQUELINE 

"Why  so ? "  said  the  Baronne.  " I  know  more  about 
it  than  you  do,  from  Blanche  de  Villegry.  She  gave 
me  to  understand  that  her  cousin  was  much  struck  by 
Jacqueline  at  first  sight,  and  ever  since  she  does  noth- 
ing but  talk  to  me  of  M.  de  Cymier — of  his  birth,  his 
fortune,  his  abilities — the  charming  young  fellow 
seems  gifted  with  everything.  He  could  be  Secretary 
of  Legation,  if  he  liked  to  quit  Paris.  In  the  meantime 
attach^  to  an  Embassy  looks  very  well  on  a  card. 
Attach^  to  the  Ministry  of  the  Foreign  Affairs  does  not 
seem  so  good.  Jacqueline  would  be  a  countess,  pos- 
sibly an  ambassadress.  What  would  you  think  of 
that!" 

Madame  de  Nailles,  who  understood  policy  much 
better  than  her  husband,  had  suddenly  become  a  con- 
vert to  opportunism,  and  had  made  a  change  of  base. 
Not  being  able  to  devise  a  plan  by  which  to  suppress 
her  young  rival,  she  had  begun  to  think  that  her  best 
way  to  get  rid  of  her  would  be  by  promoting  her  mar- 
riage. The  little  girl  was  fast  developing  into  a  woman 
— a  woman  who  would  certainly  not  consent  quietly 
to  be  set  aside.  Well,  then,  it  would  be  best  to  dispose 
of  her  in  so  natural  a  way.  When  Jacqueline's  slender 
and  graceful  figure  and  the  freshness  of  her  bloom  were 
no  longer  brought  into  close  comparison  with  her  own 
charms,  she  felt  she  should  appear  much  younger,  and 
should  recover  some  of  her  prestige;  people  would  be 
less  likely  to  remark  her  increasing  stoutness,  or  the 
red  spots  on  her  face,  increased  by  the  salt  air  which 
was  so  favorable  to  young  girls'  complexions.  Yes, 
Jacqueline  must  be  married;  that  was  the  resolution 

[127] 


TH^O  BENTZON 

to  which  Madame  de  Nailles  had  come  after  several 
nights  of  sleeplessness.  It  was  her  fixed  idea,  replac- 
ing in  her  brain  that  other  fixed  idea  which,  willingly 
or  unwillingly,  she  saw  she  must  give  up — the  idea  of 
keeping  her  stepdaughter  in  the  shade. 

"Countess!  Ambassadress!"  repeated  M.  de  Nailles, 
with  rather  a  melancholy  smile.  "You  are  going  too 
fast,  my  dear  Clotilde.  I  don't  doubt  that  Wermant 
gave  the  best  possible  account  of  our  situation;  but 
when  it  comes  to  saying  what  I  could  give  her  as  a  dot, 
I  am  very  much  afraid.  We  should  have,  in  that  case, 
to  fall  back  on  Fred,  for  I  have  not  told  you  everything. 
This  morning  Madame  d'Argy,  who  has  done  nothing 
but  weep  since  her  boy  went  away,  and  who,  she  says, 
never  will  get  accustomed  to  the  life  of  misery  and 
anxiety  she  will  lead  as  a  sailor's  mother,  exclaimed,  as 
she  was  talking  to  me:  "Ah!  there  is  but  one  way  of 
keeping  him  at  Lizerolles,  of  having  him  live  there  as 
the  D'Argys  have  lived  before  him,  quietly,  like  a  good 
landlord,  and  that  would  be  to  give  him  your  daughter; 
with  her  he  would  be  entirely  satisfied." 

"Ah!  so  that  is  the  reason  why  she  asked  whether 
Jacqueline  might  not  stay  with  her  when  we  go  to 
Italy!  She  wishes  to  court  her  by  proxy.  But  I  don't 
think  she  will  succeed.  Monsieur  de  Cymier  has  the 
best  chance." 

"Do  you  suppose  the  child  suspects— 

"That  he  admires  her?  My  dear  friend,  we  have 
to  do  with  a  very  sharp-sighted  young  person.  Noth- 
ing escapes  the  observation  of  Mademoiselle  votre 
f$e." 

[128] 


JACQUELINE 

And  Madame  de  Nailles,  in  her  turn,  smiled  some- 
what bitterly. 

"Well,"  said  Jacqueline's  father,  after  a  few  mo- 
ments' reflection,  "it  may  be  as  well  that  she  should 
weigh  for  and  against  a  match  before  deciding.  She 
may  spend  several  years  that  are  difficult  and  danger- 
ous trying  to  find  out  what  she  wants  and  to  make  up 
her  mind." 

"Several  years?" 

"Hang  it!  You  would  not  marry  off  Jacqueline  at 
once?" 

"Bah!  many  a  girl,  practically  not  as  old  as  she,  is 
married  at  sixteen  or  seventeen." 

"Why!  I  fancied  you  thought  so  differently!" 

"Our  ways  of  thinking  are  sometimes  altered  by 
events,  especially  when  they  are  founded  upon  sincere 
and  disinterested  affection." 

"Like  that  of  good  parents,  such  as  we  are,"  added 
M.  de  Nailles,  ending  her  sentence  with  an  expression 
of  grateful  emotion. 

For  one  moment  the  Baronne  paled  under  this 
compliment. 

"What  did  you  say  to  Madame  d'Argy?"  she  hast- 
ened to  ask. 

"I  said  we  must  give  the  young  fellow's  beard  tune 
to  grow." 

"Yes,  that  was  right.  I  prefer  Monsieur  de  Cymier 
a  hundred  times  over.  Still,  if  nothing  better  offers— 
a  bird  in  the  hand,  you  know " 

Madame  de  Nailles  finished  her  sentence  by  a  wave 
of  her  fan. 

9  tI29] 


THEO  BENTZON 

"Oh!  our  bird  in  the  hand  is  not  to  be  despised. 
A  very  handsome  estate— 

"Where  Jacqueline  would  be  bored  to  death.  I 
should  rather  see  her  radiant  at  some  foreign  court. 
Let  me  manage  it.  Let  me  bring  her  out.  Give  me 
carte  blanche  and  let  me  have  some  society  this  win- 
ter." 

Madame  de  Nailles,  whether  she  knew  it  or  not — 
probably  she  did,  for  she  had  great  skill  in  reading  the 
thoughts  of  others — was  acting  precisely  in  accordance 
with  the  wishes  or  the  will  of  Jacqueline,  who,  having 
found  much  enjoyment  in  the  dances  at  the  Casino, 
had  made  up  her  mind  that  she  meant  to  come 
out  into  society  before  any  of  her  young  compan- 
ions. 

"I  shall  not  have  to  beg  and  implore  her,"  she  said 
to  herself,  anticipating  the  objections  of  her  step- 
mother. "I  shall  only  have  politely  to  let  her  suspect 
that  such  a  thing  may  have  occurred  as  having  had  a 
listener  at  a  door.  I  paid  dearly  enough  for  this  hold 
over  her.  I  have  no  scruple  in  using  it." 

Madame  de  Nailles  was  not  mistaken  in  her  step- 
daughter; she  was  very  far  advanced  beyond  her  age, 
thanks  to  the  cruel  wrong  that  had  been  done  her  by 
the  loss  of  her  trust  in  her  elders  and  her  respect  for 
them.  Her  heart  had  had  its  past,  though  she  was 
still  hardly  more  than  a  child — a  sad  past,  though  its 
pain  was  being  rapidly  effaced.  She  now  thought 
about  it  only  at  intervals.  Time  and  circumstances 
were  operating  on  her  as  they  act  upon  us  generally; 
only  in  her  case  more  quickly  than  usual,  which  pro- 

[130] 


JACQUELINE 

duced  in  her  character  and  feelings  phenomena  that 
might  have  seemed  curious  to  an  observer.  She  was 
something  of  a  woman,  something  of  a  child,  some- 
thing of  a  philosopher.  At  night,  when  she  was  danc- 
ing with  Wermant,  or  Cymier,  or  even  Talbrun,  or  on 
horseback,  an  exercise  which  all  the  Blues  were  wild 
about,  she  was  an  audacious  flirt,  a  girl  up  to  anything; 
and  in  the  morning,  at  low  tide,  she  might  be  seen, 
with  her  legs  and  feet  bare,  among  the  children,  of 
whom  there  were  many  on  the  sands,  digging  ditches, 
making  ramparts,  constructing  towers  and  fortifications 
in  wet  sand,  herself  as  much  amused  as  if  she  had 
been  one  of  the  babies  themselves.  There  was  scream- 
ing and  jumping,  and  rushing  out  of  reach  of  the  waves 
which  came  up  ready  to  overthrow  the  most  compli- 
cated labors  of  the  little  architects,  rough  romping  of 
all  kinds,  enough  to  amaze  and  disconcert  a  lover. 
But  no  one  could  have  guessed  at  the  thoughts  which, 
in  the  midst  of  all  this  fun  and  frolic,  were  passing 
through  the  too  early  ripened  mind  of  Jacqueline. 
She  was  thinking  that  many  things  to  which  we  attach 
great  value  and  importance  in  this  world  are  as  easily 
swept  away  as  the  sand  barriers  raised  against  the  sea 
by  childish  hands;  that  everywhere  there  must  be  flux 
and  reflux,  that  the  beach  the  children  had  so  dug  up 
would  soon  become  smooth  as  a  mirror,  ready  for  other 
little  ones  to  dig  it  over  again,  tempting  them  to  work, 
and  yet  discouraging  their  industry.  Her  heart,  she 
thought,  was  like  the  sand,  ready  for  new  impressions. 
The  elegant  form  of  M.  de  Cymier  slightly  overshad- 
owed it,  distinct  among  other  shadows  more  confused. 


THfiO  BENTZON 

And  Jacqueline  said  to  herself  with  a  smile,  exactly 
what  her  father  and  Madame  de  Nailles  had  said  to 
each  other: 

' '  Countess ! — who  knows  ?    Ambassadress !     Perhaps 
— some  day " 


[132] 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  PUZZLING  CORRESPONDENCE 

[UT  I  can  not  see  any  reason  why  we 
should  not  take  Jacqueline  with  us  to 
Italy.  She  is  just  of  an  age  to  profit 
by  it." 

These  words  were  spoken  by  M. 
de  Nailles  after  a  long  silence  at  the 
breakfast-table.      They    startled    his 
hearers  like  a  bomb. 
Jacqueline  waited  to  hear  what  would  come  next, 
fixing  a  keen  look  upon  her  stepmother.    Their  eyes 
met  like  the  flash  of  two  swords. 

The  eyes  of  the  one  said:  "Now,  let  us  hear  what 
you  will  answer!"  while  the  other  strove  to  maintain 
that  calmness  which  comes  to  some  people  in  a  moment 
of  danger.  The  Baroness  grew  a  little  pale,  and  then 
said,  in  her  softest  tones: 

"You  are  quite  right,  mon  ami,  but  Jacqueline,  I 
think,  prefers  to  stay." 
"I  decidedly  prefer  to  stay,"  said  Jacqueline. 
Her    adversary,   much  relieved    by  this  response, 
could  not  repress  a  sigh. 

"It  seems  singular,"  said  M.  de  Nailles. 
"What!  that  I  prefer  to  pass  a  month  or  six  weeks 
with  Madame  d'Argy  ?    Besides,  Giselle  is  going  to  be 
married  during  that  time." 


BENTZON 

"They  might  put  it  off  until  we  come  back,  I  should 
suppose." 

"Oh!  I  don't  think  they  would,"  cried  the  Baroness. 
"Madame  de  Monredon  is  so  selfish.  She  was  offended 
to  think  we  should  talk  of  going  away  on  the  eve  of  an 
event  she  considers  so  important.  Besides,  she  has  so 
little  regard  for  me  that  I  should  think  her  more  likely 
to  hasten  the  wedding-day  rather  than  retard  it,  if  it 
were  only  for  the  pleasure  of  giving  us  a  lesson." 

"I  am  sorry.  I  should  have  been  glad  to  be,  as  she 
wished,  one  of  Giselle's  witnesses,  but  people  don't 
take  my  position  into  consideration.  If  I  do  not  take 
advantage  of  the  recess— 

"Besides,"  interrupted  Jacqueline,  carelessly,  "your 
journey  must  coincide  with  that  of  Monsieur  Marien." 

She  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  stepmother  again 
slightly  change  color.  Madame  de  Nailles  was  pour- 
ing out  for  herself  a  cup  of  tea  with  singular  care  and 
attention. 

"Of  course,"  said  M.  de  Nailles.  His  daughter 
pitied  him,  and  cried,  with  an  increasing  wish  to  annoy 
her  stepmother:  "Mamma,  don't  you  see  that  your 
teapot  has  no  tea  in  it ?  Yes,"  she  went  on,  "it  must  be 
delightful  to  travel  in  Italy  in  company  with  a  great 
artist  who  would  explain  everything;  but  then  one 
would  be  expected  to  visit  all  the  picture-galleries,  and 
I  hate  pictures,  since— 

She  paused  and  again  looked  meaningly  at  her  step- 
mother, whose  soft  blue  eyes  showed  anguish  of  spirit, 
and  seemed  to  say:  "Oh,  what  a  cruel  hold  she  has 
upon  me!"  Jacqueline  continued,  carelessly: 

[i34] 


JACQUELINE 

"Picture-galleries  I  don't  care  for — I  like  nature  a 
hundred  times  better.  Some  day  I  should  like  to  take 
a  journey  to  suit  myself,  my  own  journey!  Oh,  papa, 
may  I  ?  A  journey  on  foot  with  you  in  the  Tyrol  ?  " 

Madame  de  Nailles  was  no  great  walker. 

"Both  of  us,  just  you  and  I  alone,  with  our  alpen- 
stocks in  our  hands — it  would  be  lovely!  But  Italy  and 
painters " 

Here,  with  a  boyish  flourish  of  her  hands,  she  seemed 
to  send  that  classic  land  to  Jericho ! 

"Do  promise  me,  papa!" 

"Before  asking  a  reward,  you  must  deserve  it,"  said 
her  father,  severely,  who  saw  something  was  wrong. 

During  her  stay  at  Lizerolles,  which  her  perverseness, 
her  resentment,  and  a  repugnance  founded  on  instincts 
of  delicacy,  had  made  her  prefer  to  a  journey  to  Italy, 
Jacqueline,  having  nothing  better  to  do,  took  it  into  her 
head  to  write  to  her  friend  Fred.  The  young  man  re- 
ceived three  letters  at  three  different  ports  in  the 
Mediterranean  and  in  the  West  Indies,  whose  names 
were  long  associated  in  his  mind  with  delightful  and 
cruel  recollections.  When  the  first  was  handed  to  him 
with  one  from  his  mother,  whose  letters  always  awaited 
him  at  every  stopping-place,  the  blood  flew  to  his  face, 
his  heart  beat  violently,  he  could  have  cried  aloud  but 
for  the  necessity  of  self-command  in  the  presence  of 
his  comrades,  who  had  already  remarked  in  whispers  to 
each  other,  and  with  envy,  on  the  pink  envelope,  which 
exhaled  Voder  di  femina.  He  hid  his  treasure  quickly, 
and  carried  it  to  a  spot  where  he  could  be  alone ;  then 
he  kissed  the  bold,  pointed  handwriting  that  he  recog- 


TH^O  BENTZON 

nized  at  once,  though  never  before  had  it  written  his 
address.  He  kissed,  too,  more  than  once,  the  pink 
seal  with  a  J  on  it,  whose  slender  elegance  reminded 
him  of  its  owner.  Hardly  did  he  dare  to  break  the  seal ; 
then  forgetting  altogether,  as  we  might  be  sure,  his 
mother's  letter,  which  he  knew  beforehand  was  full  of 
good  advice  and  expressions  of  affection,  he  eagerly 
read  this,  which  he  had  not  expected  to  receive: 

"LIZEROLLES,  October,  5,  188 — 

"MY  DEAR  FRED: 

"Your  mother  thinks  you  would  be  pleased  to  receive  a  letter 
from  me,  and  I  hope  you  will  be.  You  need  not  answer  this  if 
you  do  not  care  to  do  so.  You  will  notice,  par  parenthese,  that 
I  take  this  opportunity  of  saying  you  and  not  thou  to  you.  It  is 
easier  to  change  the  familiar  mode  of  address  in  writing  than  in 
speaking,  and  when  we  meet  again  the  habit  will  have  become 
confirmed.  But,  as  I  write,  it  will  require  great  attention,  and 
I  can  not  promise  to  keep  to  it  to  the  end.  Half  an  hour's  chat 
with  an  old  friend  will  also  help  me  to  pass  the  time,  which  I  own 
seems  rather  long,  as  it  is  passed  by  your  sweet,  dear  mother  and 
myself  at  Lizerolles.  Oh,  if  you  were  only  here  it  would  be  dif- 
ferent! In  the  first  place,  we  should  talk  less  of  a  certain  Fred, 
which  would  be  one  great  advantage.  You  must  know  that  you 
are  the  subject  of  our  discourse  from  morning  to  night;  we  talk 
only  of  the  dangers  of  the  seas,  the  future  prospects  of  a  seaman, 
and  all  the  rest  of  it.  If  the  wind  is  a  little  higher  than  usual, 
your  mother  begins  to  cry;  she  is  sure  you  are  battling  with  a 
tempest.  If  any  fishing-boat  is  wrecked,  we  talk  of  nothing  but 
shipwrecks;  and  I  am  asked  to  join  in  another  novena,  in  addi- 
tion to  those  with  which  we  must  have  already  wearied  Notre 
Dame  de  Tre*port.  Every  evening  we  spread  out  the  map :  '  See, 
Jacqueline,  he  must  be  here  now — no,  he  is  almost  there,'  and 
lines  of  red  ink  are  traced  from  one  port  to  another,  and  little 
crosses  are  made  to  show  the  places  where  we  hope  you  will  get 


JACQUELINE 

your  letters — 'Poor  boy,  poor,  dear  boy!'  In  short,  notwith- 
standing all  the  affectionate  interest  I  take  in  you,  this  is  sometimes 
too  much  for  me.  In  fact,  I  think  I  must  be  very  fond  of  thee 
not  to  have  grown  positively  to  hate  thee  for  all  this  fuss.  There ! 
In  this  last  sentence,  instead  of  saying  you,  I  have  said  thee  I  That 
ought  to  gild  the  pill  for  you! 

We  do  not  go  very  frequently  to  visit  Tre'port,  except  to 
invoke  for  you  the  protection  of  Heaven,  and  I  like  it  just  as 
well,  for  since  the  last  fortnight  in  September,  which  was  very 
rainy,  the  beach  is  dismal — so  different  from  what  it  was  in  the 
summer.  The  town  looks  gloomy  under  a  cloudy  sky  with  its 
blackened  old  brick  houses!  We  are  better  off  at  Lizerolles, 
whose  autumnal  beauties  you  know  so  well  that  I  will  say  nothing 
about  them.  Oh,  Fred,  how  often  I  regret  that  I  am  not  a  boy! 
I  could  take  your  gun  and  go  shooting  in  the  swamps,  where  there 
are  clouds  of  ducks  now.  I  feel  sure  that  if  you  were  in  my  place, 
you  could  kill  time  without  killing  game;  but  I  am  at  the  end  of 
my  small  resources  when  I  have  played  a  little  on  the  piano  to 
amuse  your  mother  and  have  read  her  the  Gazette  de  France.  In 
the  evening  we  read  a  translation  of  some  English  novel.  There 
are  neighbors,  of  course,  old  fogies  who  stay  all  the  year  round 
in  Picardy — but,  tell  me,  don't  you  find  them  sometimes  a  little 
too  respectable?  My  greatest  comfort  is  in  your  dog,  who  loves 
me  as  much  as  if  I  were  his  master,  though  I  can  not  take  him  out 
shooting.  While  I  write  he  is  lying  on  the  hem  of  my  gown  and 
makes  a  little  noise,  as  much  as  to  tell  me  that  I  recall  you  to  his 
remembrance.  Yet  you  are  not  to  suppose  that  I  am  suffering 
from  ennui,  or  am  ungrateful,  nor  above  all  must  you  imagine 
that  I  have  ceased  to  love  your  excellent  mother  with  all  my 
heart.  I  love  her,  on  the  contrary,  more  than  ever  since  I  passed 
this  winter  through  a  great,  great  sorrow — a  sorrow  which  is  now 
only  a  sad  remembrance,  but  which  has  changed  for  me  the  face 
of  everything  in  this  world.  Yes,  since  I  have  suffered  myself, 
I  understand  your  mother.  I  admire  her,  I  love  her  more  than 
ever. 

How  happy  you  are,  my  dear  Fred,  to  have  such  a  sweet  mother, 

[137] 


TH^O  BENTZON 

— a  real  mother  who  never  thinks  about  her  face,  or  her  figure, 
or  her  age,  but  only  of  the  success  of  her  son ;  a  dear  little  mother 
in  a  plain  black  gown,  and  with  pretty  gray  hair,  who  has  the 
manners  and  the  toilette  that  just  suit  her,  who  somehow  always 
seems  to  say:  'I  care. for  nothing  but  that  which  affects  my  son.' 
Such  mothers  are  rare,  believe  me.  Those  that  I  know,  the 
mothers  of  my  friends,  are  for  the  most  part  trying  to  appear  as 
young  as  their  daughters — nay,  prettier,  and  of  course  more 
elegant.  When  they  have  sons  they  make  them  wear  jackets 
a  I'anglaise  and  turn-down  collars,  up  to  the  age  when  I  wore 
short  skirts.  Have  you  noticed  that  nowadays  in  Paris  there 
are  only  ladies  who  are  young,  or  who  are  trying  to  make  them- 
selves appear  so  ?  Up  to  the  last  moment  they  powder  and  paint, 
and  try  to  make  themselves  different  from  what  age  has  made 
them.  If  their  hair  was  black  it  grows  blacker — if  red,  it  is  more 
red.  But  there  is  no  longer  any  gray  hair  in  Paris — it  is  out  of 
fashion.  That  is  the  reason  why  I  think  your  mother's  pretty 
silver  curls  so  lovely  and  distinguts.  I  kiss  them  every  night  for 
you,  after  I  have  kissed  them  for  myself. 

"Have  a  good  voyage,  come  back  soon,  and  take  care  of  your- 
self, dear  Fred." 

The  young  sailor  read  this  letter  over  and  over  again. 
The  more  he  read  it  the  more  it  puzzled  him.  Most 
certainly  he  felt  that  Jacqueline  gave  him  a  great  proof 
of  confidence  when  she  spoke  to  him  of  some  mysterious 
unhappiness,  an  unhappiness  of  which  it  was  evident 
her  stepmother  was  the  cause.  He  could  see  that  much; 
but  he  was  infinitely  far  from  suspecting  the  nature  of 
the  woes  to  which  she  alluded.  Poor  Jacqueline!  He 
pitied  her  without  knowing  what  for,  with  a  great  out- 
burst of  sympathy,  and  an  honest  desire  to  do  anything 
in  the  world  to  make  her  happy.  Was  it  really  possible 
that  she  could  have  been  enduring  any  grief  that  sum- 

[138] 


JACQUELINE 

mer  when  she  had  seemed  so  madly  gay,  so  ready  for 
a  little  flirtation  ?  Young  girls  must  be  very  skilful  in 
concealing  their  inmost  feelings!  When  he  was  un- 
happy he  had  it  out  by  himself,  he  took  refuge  in  soli- 
tude, he  wanted  to  be  done  with  existence.  Everybody 
knew  when  anything  went  wrong  with  him.  Why  could 
not  Jacqueline  have  let  him  know  more  plainly  what  it 
was  that  troubled  her,  and  why  could  she  not  have 
shown  a  little  tenderness  toward  him,  instead  of  assum- 
ing, even  when  she  said  the  kindest  things  to  him,  her 
air  of  mockery  ?  And  then,  though  she  might  pretend 
not  to  find  Lizerolles  stupid,  he  could  see  that  she  was 
bored  there.  Yet  why  had  she  chosen  to  stay  at  Liz- 
erolles rather  than  go  to  Italy  ? 

Alas!  how  that  little  pink  letter  made  him  reflect  and 
guess,  and  turn  things  over  in  his  mind,  and  wish  him- 
self at  the  devil — that  little  pink  letter  which  he  carried 
day  and  night  on  his  breast  and  made  it  crackle  as  it  lay 
there,  when  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  satin  folds  so  near 
his  heart !  It  had  an  odor  of  sweet  violets  which  seemed 
to  him  to  overpower  the  smell  of  pitch  and  of  salt  water, 
to  fill  the  air,  to  perfume  everything. 

"That  young  fellow  has  the  instincts  of  a  sailor," 
said  his  superior  officers  when  they  saw  him  standing 
in  attitudes  which  they  thought  denoted  observation, 
though  with  him  it  was  only  reverie.  He  would  stand 
with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  some  distant  point,  whence  he 
fancied  he  could  see  emerging  from  the  waves  a  small, 
brown,  shining  head,  with  long  hair  streaming  behind, 
the  head  of  a  girl  swimming,  a  girl  he  knew  so  well. 

"One  can  see  that  he  takes  an  interest  in  nautical 


TH£O  BENTZON 

phenomena,  that  he  is  heart  and  soul  in  his  profession, 
that  he  cares  for  nothing  else.  Oh,  he'll  make  a  sailor! 
We  may  be  sure  of  that!" 

Fred  sent  his  young  friend  and  cousin,  by  way  of  re- 
ply, a  big  packet  of  manuscript,  the  leaves  of  which 
were  of  all  sizes,  over  which  he  had  poured  forth  tor- 
rents of  poetry,  amorous  and  descriptive,  under  the 
title:  At  Sea. 

Never  would  he  have  dared  to  show  her  this  if  the 
ocean  had  not  lain  between  them.  He  was  frightened 
when  his  packet  had  been  sent.  His  only  comfort  was 
in  the  thought  that  he  had  hypocritically  asked  Jacque- 
line for  her  literary  opinion  of  his  verses;  but  she  could 
not  fail,  he  thought,  to  understand. 

Long  before  an  answer  could  have  been  expected,  he 
got  another  letter,  sky-blue  this  time,  much  longer  than 
the  first,  giving  him  an  account  of  Giselle's  wedding. 

"  Your  mother  and  I  went  together  to  Normandy,  where  the 
marriage  was  to  take  place  after  the  manner  of  old  times,  '  in  the 
fashion  of  the  Middle  Ages,'  as  our  friends  the  Wermants  said  to 
me,  who  might  perhaps  not  have  laughed  at  it  had  they  been 
invited.  Madame  de  Monredon  is  all  for  old  customs,  and  she 
had  made  it  a  great  point  that  the  wedding  should  not  take  place 
in  Paris.  Had  I  been  Giselle,  I  should  not  have  liked  it.  I 
know  nothing  more  elegant  or  more  solemn  than  the  entrance  of 
a  bridal  party  into  the  Madeleine,  but  we  shall  have  to  be  content 
with  Saint- Augustin.  Still,  the  toilettes,  as  they  pass  up  the  aisle, 
even  there,  are  very  effective,  and  the  decoration  of  the  tall,  high 
altar  is  magnificent.  Toe!  Toe!  First  come  the  beadles  with 
their  halberds,  then  the  loud  notes  of  the  organ,  then  the  wide 
doors  are  thrown  open,  making  a  noise  as  they  turn  on  their  great 
hinges,  letting  the  noise  of  carriages  outside  be  heard  in  the  church; 

[140] 


JACQUELINE 

and  then  comes  the  bride  in  a  ray  of  sunshine.  I  could  wish  for 
nothing  more.  A  grand  wedding  in  the  country  is  much  more 
quiet,  but  it  is  old-fashioned.  In  the  little  village  church  the 
guests  were,  very  much  crowded,  and  outside  there  was  a  great 
mob  of  country  folk.  Carpets  had  been  laid  down  over  the  dilapi- 
dated pavement,  composed  principally  of  tombstones.  The  rough 
walls  were  hung  with  scarlet.  All  the  clergy  of  the  neighborhood 
were  present.  A  Monsignor — related  to  the  Talbruns — pro- 
nounced the  nuptial  benediction ;  his  address  was  a  panegyric  on 
the  two  families.  He  gave  us  to  understand  that  if  he  did  not  go 
back  quite  as  far  as  the  Crusades,  it  was  only  because  time  was 
wanting. 

Madame  de  Monredon  was  all-glorious,  of  course.  She  certainly 
looked  like  an  old  vulture,  in  a  pelisse  of  gray  velvet,  with  a  chin- 
chilla boa  round  her  long,  bare  neck,  and  her  big  beak,  with  mar- 
abouts overshadowing  it,  of  the  same  color.  Monsieur  de  Talbrun 
— well !  Monsieur  de  Talbrun  was  very  bald,  as  bald  as  he  could 
be.  To  make  up  for  the  want  of  hair  on  his  head,  he  has  plenty  of 
it  on  his  hands.  It  is  horrid,  and  it  makes  him  look  like  an  animal. 
You  have  no  idea  how  queer  he  looked  when  he  sat  down,  with  his 
big,  pink  head  just  peeping  over  the  back  of  the  crimson  velvet 
chair,  which  was,  however,  almost  as  tall  as  he  is.  He  is  short, 
you  may  remember.  As  to  our  poor  Giselle,  the  prettiest  persons 
sometimes  look  badly  as  brides,  and  those  who  are  not  pretty  look 
ugly.  Do  you  recollect  that  picture — by  Velasquez,  is  it  not? — 
of  a  fair  little  Infanta  stiffly  swathed  in  cloth  of  gold,  as  becomes 
her  dignity,  and  looking  crushed  by  it?  Giselle's  gown  was  of 
Point  d'Alencon,  old  family  lace  as  yellow  as  ancient  parchment, 
but  of  inestimable  value.  Her  long  corsage,  made  in  the  fashion 
of  Anne  of  Austria,  looked  on  her  like  a  cuirass,  and  she  dragged 
after  her,  somewhat  awkwardly,  a  very  long  train,  which  impeded 
her  movement  as  she  walked.  A  lace  veil,  as  hereditary  and 
time-worn  as  the  gown,  but  which  had  been  worn  by  all  the  Monre- 
dons  at  their  weddings,  the  present  dowager's  included,  hid  the 
pretty,  light  hair  of  our  dear  little  friend,  and  was  supported  by  a 
sort  of  heraldic  comb  and  some  orange-flowers;  in  short,  you  can 


THfeO  BENTZON 

not  imagine  anything  more  heavy  or  more  ugly.  Poor  Giselle, 
loaded  down  with  it,  had  red  eyes,  a  face  of  misery,  and  the  air 
of  a  martyr.  For  all  this  her  grandmother  scolded  her  sharply, 
which  of  course  did  not  mend  matters.  Du  reste,  she  seemed  ab- 
sorbed in  prayer  or  thought  during  the  ceremony,  in  which  I  took 
up  the  offerings,  by  the  way,  with  a  young  lieutenant  of  dragoons 
just  out  of  the  military  school  at  Saint  Cyr:  a  uniform  always 
looks  well  on  such  occasions.  Nor  was  Monsieur  de  Talbrun  one 
of  those  lukev.-arm  Christians  who  hear  mass  with  their  arms 
crossed  and  their  noses  in  the  air.  He  pulled  a  jewelled  prayer- 
book  out  of  his  pocket,  which  Giselle  had  given  him.  Speaking 
of  presents,  those  he  gave  her  were  superb :  pearls  as  big  as  hazel- 
nuts,  a  ruby  heart  that  was  a  marvel,  a  diamond  crescent  that  I 
am  afraid  she  will  never  wear  with  such  an  air  as  it  deserves,  and 
two  strings  of  diamonds  en  riviere,  which  I  should  suppose  she 
would  have  reset,  for  riineres  are  no  longer  in  fashion.  The 
stones  are  enormous. 

"But,  poor  dear!  she  could  care  little  for  such  things.  All  she 
wanted  was  to  get  back  as  quickly  as  she  could  into  her  usual 
clothes.  She  said  to  me,  again  and  again :  '  Pray  God  for  me  that 
I  may  be  a  good  wife.  I  am  so  afraid  I  may  not  be.  To  belong 
to  Monsieur  de  Talbrun  in  this  world,  and  in  the  next;  to  give  up 
everything  for  him,  seems  so  extraordinary.  Indeed,  I  think  I 
hardly  knew  what  I  was  promising.'  I  felt  sorry  for  her;  I  kissed 
her.  I  was  ready  to  cry  myself,  and  poor  Giselle  went  on :  'If  you 
knew,  dear,  how  I  love  you !  how  I  love  all  my  friends !  really  to 
love,  people  must  have  been  brought  up  together — must  have  always 
known  each  other.'  I  don't  think  she  was  right,  but  everybody 
has  his  or  her  ideas  about  such  things.  I  tried,  by  way  of  consol- 
ing her,  to  draw  her  attention  to  the  quantities  of  presents  she  had 
received.  They  were  displayed  on  several  tables  in  the  smaller 
drawing-room,  but  her  grandmother  would  not  let  them  put  the 
name  of  the  giver  upon  each,  as  is  the  present  custom.  She  said 
that  it  humiliated  those  who  had  not  been  able  to  make  gifts  as 
expensive  as  others.  She  is  right,  when  one  comes  to  think  of  it. 
Nor  would  she  let  the  trousseau  be  displayed;  she  did  not  think 


JACQUELINE 

it  proper,  but  I  saw  enough  to  know  that  there  were  marvels  in 
linen,  muslin,  silks,  and  surahs,  covered  all  over  with  lace.  One 
could  see  that  the  great  mantuamaker  had  not  consulted  the  grand- 
mother, who  says  that  women  of  distinction  in  her  day  did  not 
wear  paltry  trimmings. 

"  Dinner  was  served  under  a  tent  for  all  the  village  people  dur- 
ing the  two  mortal  hours  we  had  to  spend  over  a  repast,  in  which 
Madame  de  Monredon's  cook  excelled  himself.  Then  came 
complimentary  addresses  in  the  old-fashioned  style,  composed  by 
the  village  schoolmaster  who,  for  a  wonder,  knew  what  he  was 
about;  groups  of  village  children,  boys  and  girls,  came  bringing 
their  offerings,  followed  by  pet  lambs  decked  with  ribbons;  it  was 
all  in  the  style  of  the  days  of  Madame  de  Genlis.  While  we  danced 
in  the  salons  there  was  dancing  in  the  barn,  which  had  been  deco- 
rated for  the  occasion.  In  short,  lords  and  ladies  and  laborers 
all  seemed  to  enjoy  themselves,  or  made  believe  they  did.  The 
Parisian  gentlemen  who  danced  were  not  very  numerous.  There 
were  a  few  friends  of  Monsieur  de  Talbrun's,  however — among 
them,  a  Monsieur  de  Cymier,  whom  possibly  you  remember  having 
seen  last  summer  at  Treport;  he  led  the  cotillon  divinely.  The 
bride  and  bridegroom  drove  away  during  the  evening,  as  they  do  in 
England,  to  their  own  house,  which  is  not  far  off.  Monsieur  de 
Talbrun's  horses — a  magnificent  pair,  harnessed  to  a  new  caliche — 
carried  off  Psyche,  as  an  old  gentleman  in  gold  spectacles  said  near 
me.  He  was  a  pretentious  old  personage,  who  made  a  speech  at 
table,  very  inappropriate  and  much  applauded.  Poor  Giselle!  I 
have  not  seen  her  since,  but  she  has  written  me  one  of  those  little 
notes  which,  when  she  was  in  the  convent,  she  used  to  sign  En/ant 
de  Marie.  It  begged  me  again  to  pray  earnestly  for  her  that  she 
might  not  fail  in  the  fulfilment  of  her  new  duties.  It  seems  hard, 
does  it  not  ?  Let  us  hope  that  Monsieur  de  Talbrun,  on  his  part, 
may  not  find  that  his  new  life  rather  wearies  him !  Do  you  know 
what  should  have  been  Giselle's  fate — since  she  has  a  mania  about 
people  being  thoroughly  acquainted  before  marriage  ?  What  would 
two  or  three  years  more  or  less  have  mattered  ?  She  would  have 
made  an  admirable  wife  for  a  sailor;  she  would  have  spent  the 

[143] 


THfiO  BENTZON 

months  of  your  absence  kneeling  before  the  altar;  she  would  have 
multiplied  the  lamentations  and  the  tendernesses  of  your  excellent 
mother.  I  have  been  thinking  this  ever  since  the  wedding-day — 
a  very  sad  day,  after  all. 

"But  how  I  have  let  my  pen  run  on.  I  shall  have  to  put  on 
two  stamps,  notwithstanding  my  thin  paper.  But  then  you  have 
plenty  of  time  to  read  on  board- ship,  and  this  account  may  amuse 
you.  Make  haste  and  thank  me  for  it. 

"Your  old  friend,  "JACQUELINE." 


Amuse  him!  How  could  he  be  amused  by  so  great 
an  insult?  What!  thank  her  for  giving  him  over  even 
in  thought  to  Giselle  or  to  anybody  ?  Oh,  how  wicked, 
how  ungrateful,  how  unworthy! 

The  six  pages  of  foreign-post  paper  were  crumpled 
up  by  his  angry  ringers.  Fred  tore  them  with  his  teeth, 
and  finally  made  them  into  a  ball  which  he  flung  into 
the  sea,  hating  himself  for  having  been  so  foolish  as 
to  let  himself  be  caught  by  the  first  lines,  as  a  foolish 
fish  snaps  at  the  bait,  when,  apropos  to  the  church 
in  which  she  would  like  to  be  married,  she  had  added: 
"But  we  should  have  to  be  content  with  Saint- Augus- 
tin." 

Those  words  had  delighted  him  as  if  they  had  really 
been  meant  for  himself  and  Jacqueline.  This  promise 
for  the  future,  that  seemed  to  escape  involuntarily  from 
her  pen,  had  made  him  find  all  the  rest  of  her  letter 
piquant  and  amusing.  As  he  read,  his  mind  had  re- 
verted to  that  little  phrase  which  he  now  found  he  had 
interpreted  wrongly.  What  a  fall !  How  his  hopes  now 
crumbled  under  his  feet!  She  must  have  done  it  on 
purpose — but  no,  he  need  not  blacken  her!  She  had 

[i44] 


JACQUELINE 

written  without  thought,  without  purpose,  in  high 
spirits;  she  wanted  to  be  witty,  to  be  droll,  to  write 
gossip  without  any  reference  to  him  to  whom  her  letter 
was  addressed.  That  we  who  some  day  would  make 
a  triumphal  entry  into  St.  Augustin  would  be  herself 
and  some  other  man — some  man  with  whom  her  ac- 
quaintance had  been  short,  since  she  did  not  seem  to 
feel  in  that  matter  like  Giselle.  Some  one  she  did  not 
yet  know?  Was  that  sure?  She  might  know  her  fu- 
ture husband  already,  even  now  she  might  have  made 
her  choice — Marcel  d'Etaples,  perhaps,  who  looked  so 
well  in  uniform,  or  that  M.  de  Cymier,  who  led  the 
cotillon  so  divinely.  Yes!  No  doubt  it  was  he — the 
last-comer.  And  once  more  Fred  suffered  all  the  pangs 
of  jealousy.  It  seemed  to  him  that  in  his  loneliness, 
between  sky  and  sea,  those  pangs  were  more  acute 
than  he  had  ever  known  them.  His  comrades  teased 
him  about  his  melancholy  looks,  and  made  him  the  butt 
of  all  their  jokes  in  the  cockpit.  He  resolved,  how- 
ever, to  get  over  it,  and  at  the  next  port  they  put  into, 
Jacqueline's  letter  was  the  cause  of  his  entering  for 
the  first  time  some  discreditable  scenes  of  dissipa- 
tion. 

At  Bermuda  he  received  another  letter,  dated  from 
Paris,  where  Jacqueline  had  rejoined  her  parents,  who 
had  returned  from  Italy.  She  sent  him  a  commission. 
Would  he  buy  her  a  riding- whip?  Bermuda  was  re- 
nowned for  its  horsewhips,  and  her  father  had  decided 
that  she  must  go  regularly  to  the  riding-school.  They 
seemed  anxious  now  to  give  her,  as  preliminary  to  her 
introduction  into  society,  not  only  such  pleasures  as 

!0  [  145  ] 


THfiO  BENTZON 

horseback  exercise,  but  intellectual  enjoyment  also. 
She  had  been  taken  to  the  Institute  to  hear  M.  Legouve, 
and  what  was  better  still,  in  December  her  stepmother 
would  give  a  little  party  every  fortnight  and  would  let 
her  sit  up  till  eleven  o'clock.  She  was  also  to  be  taken 
to  make  some  calls.  In  short,  she  felt  herself  rising  in 
importance,  but  the  first  thing  that  had  made  her  feel 
so  was  Fred's  choice  of  her  to  be  his  literary  confidant. 
She  was  greatly  obliged  to  him,  and  did  not  know  how 
she  could  better  prove  to  him  that  she  was  worthy  of  so 
great  an  honor  than  by  telling  him  quite  frankly  just 
what  she  thought  of  his  verses.  They  were  very,  very 
pretty.  He  had  talent — great  talent.  Only,  as  in  at- 
tending the  classes  of  M.  Regis  she  had  acquired  some 
little  knowledge  of  the  laws  of  versification,  she  would 
like  to  warn  him  against  impairing  a  thought  for  the 
benefit  of  a  rhyme,  and  she  pointed  out  several  such 
places  in  his  compositions,  ending  thus : 

"Bravo!  for  sunsets,  for  twilights,  for  moonshine,  for  deep 
silence,  for  starry  nights,  and  silvery  seas — in  such  things  you 
excel;  one  feels  as  if  one  were  there,  and  one  envies  you  the  fairy 
scenes  of  ocean.  But,  I  implore  you,  be  not  sentimental.  That 
is  the  feeble  part  of  your  poetry,  to  my  thinking,  and  spoils  the 
rest.  By  the  way,  I  should  like  to  ask  you  whose  are  those  soft 
eyes,  that  silky  hair,  that  radiant  smile,  and  all  that  assortment  of 
amber,  jet,  and  coral  occurring  so  often  in  your  visions  ?  Is  she — 
or  rather,  are  they — black,  yellow,  green,  or  tattooed,  for,  of 
course,  you  have  met  everywhere  beauties  of  all  colors?  Several 
times  when  it  appeared  as  if  the  lady  of  your  dreams  were  white, 
I  fancied  you  were  drawing  a  portrait  of  Isabelle  Ray.  All  the 
girls,  your  old  friends,  to  whom  I  have  shown  At  Sea,  send  you 
their  compliments,  to  which  I  join  my  own.  Each  of  them  will 

[146] 


JACQUELINE 

beg  you  to  write  her  a  sonnet;   but  first  of  all,  in  virtue  of  our 
ancient  friendship,  I  want  one  myself. 

"  JACQUELINE." 


So !  she  had  shown  to  others  what  was  meant  for  her 
alone;  what  profanation!  And  what  was  more  abom- 
inable, she  had  not  recognized  that  he  was  speaking  of 
herself.  Ah!  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  now  but  to 
forget  her.  Fred  tried  to  do  so  conscientiously  during 
all  his  cruise  in  the  Atlantic,  but  the  moment  he  got 
ashore  and  had  seen  Jacqueline,  he  fell  again  a  victim 
to  her  charms. 


[i47] 


CHAPTER  IX 

BEAUTY  AT  THE  FAIR 


was  more  beautiful  than  ever,  and 
her  first  exclamation  on  seeing  him 
was  intended  to  be  flattering:    uAh! 
Fred,  how  much  you  have  improved! 
But  what  a  change  !   What  an  extraor- 
dinary change!     Why,  look  at  him! 
He  is  still  himself,  but  who  would 
have  thought  it  was  Fred!" 
He  was  not  disconcerted,  for  he  had  acquired  aplomb 
in  his  journeys  round  the  globe,  but  he  gave  her  a 
glance  of  sad  reproach,  while  Madame  de  Nailles  said, 
quietly  : 

"Yes,  really  —  How  are  you,  Fred  ?  The  tan  on  your 
face  is  very  becoming  to  you.  You  have  broadened  at 
the  shoulders,  and  are  now  a  man  —  something  more 
than  a  man,  an  experienced  sailor,  almost  an  old  sea- 
dog." 

And  she  laughed,  but  only  softly,  because  a  frank 
laugh  would  have  shown  little  wrinkles  under  her  eyes 
and  above  her  cheeks,  which  were  getting  too  large. 

Her  toilette,  which  was  youthful,  yet  very  carefully 
adapted  to  her  person,  showed  that  she  was  by  no  means 
as  yet  "laid  on  the  shelf,"  as  Raoul  Wermant  elegantly 
said  of  her.  She  stood  up,  leaning  over  a  table  covered 

[148] 


JACQUELINE 

with  toys,  which  it  was  her  duty  to  sell  at  the  highest 
price  possible,  for  the  place  of  a  meeting  so  full  of  emo- 
tions for  Fred  was  a  charity  bazaar. 

The  moment  he  arrived  in  Paris  the  young  officer 
had  been,  so  to  speak,  seized  by  the  collar.  He  had 
found  a  great  glazed  card,  bidding  him  to  attend  this 
fair,  in  a  fashionable  quarter,  and  forthwith  he  had 
forgotten  his  resolution  of  not  going  near  the  Nailles 
for  a  long  time. 

"This  is  not  the  same  thing,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"One  must  not  let  one's  self  be  supposed  to  be  stingy." 
So  with  these  thoughts  he  went  to  the  bazaar,  very  glad 
in  his  secret  heart  to  have  an  excuse  for  breaking  his 
resolution. 

The  fair  was  for  the  benefit  of  sufferers  from  a  fire — 
somewhere  or  other.  In  our  day  multitudes  of  people 
fall  victims  to  all  kinds  of  dreadful  disasters,  explosions 
of  boilers,  explosions  of  fire-damp,  of  everything  that 
can  explode,  for  the  agents  of  destruction  seem  to  be  in 
a  state  of  unnatural  excitement  as  well  as  human  beings. 
Never  before,  perhaps,  have  inanimate  things  seemed 
so  much  in  accordance  with  the  spirit  of  the  times. 
Fred  found  a  superb  placard,  the  work  of  Cheret,  a 
pathetic  scene  in  a  mine,  banners  streaming  in  the  air, 
with  the  words  Bazar  de  Charlie  in  gold  letters  on  a  red 
ground,  and  the  courtyard  of  the  mansion  where  the 
fair  was  held  filled  with  more  carriages  than  one  sees 
at  a  fashionable  wedding.  In  the  vestibule  many  foot- 
men were  in  attendance,  the  chasseurs  of  an  Austrian 
ambassador,  the  great  hulking  fellows  of  the  English 
embassy,  the  gray-liveried  servants  of  old  Rozenkranz, 


TH^O  BENTZON 

with  their  powdered  heads,  the  negro  man  belonging  to 
Madame  Azucazillo,  etc.,  etc.  At  each  arrival  there 
was  a  jrou-jrou  of  satin  and  lace,  and  inside  the  sales- 
room was  a  hubbub  like  the  noise  in  an  aviary.  Fred, 
finding  himself  at  once  in  the  full  stream  of  Parisian 
life,  but  for  the  moment  not  yet  part  of  it,  indulged  in 
some  of  those  philosophic  reflections  to  which  he  had 
been  addicted  on  shipboard. 

Each  of  the  tables  showed  something  of  the  tastes, 
the  character,  the  peculiarities  of  the  lady  who  had  it  in 
charge.  Madame  Sterny,  who  had  the  most  beautiful 
hands  in  the  world,  had  undertaken  to  sell  gloves,  being 
sure  that  the  gentlemen  would  be  eager  to  buy  if  she 
would  only  consent  to  try  them  on ;  Madame  de  Louis- 
grif ,  the  chanoiness,  whose  extreme  emaciation  was  not 
perceived  under  a  sort  of  ecclesiastical  cape,  had  an 
assortment  of  embroideries  and  objects  of  devotion,  in- 
tended only  for  ladies — and  indeed  for  only  the  most 
serious  among  them ;  for  the  table  that  held  umbrellas, 
parasols  and  canes  suited  to  all  ages  and  both  sexes,  a 
good,  upright  little  lady  had  been  chosen.  Her  only 
thought  was  how  much  money  she  could  make  by  her 
sales.  Madame  Strahlberg,  the  oldest  of  the  Odin- 
skas,  obviously  expected  to  sell  only  to  gentlemen;  her 
table  held  pyramids  of  cigars  and  cigarettes,  but  noth- 
ing else  was  in  the  corner  where  she  presided,  souple 
and  frail,  not  handsome,  but  far  more  dangerous  than 
if  she  had  been,  with  her  unfathomable  way  of  looking 
at  you  with  her  light  eyes  set  deep  under  her  eyebrows, 
eyes  that  she  kept  half  closed,  but  which  were  yet  so 
keen,  and  the  cruel  smile  that  showed  her  little  sharp 

[150] 


JACQUELINE 

teeth.  Her  dress  was  of  black  grenadine  embroidered 
with  silver.  She  wore  half  mourning  as  a  sort  of  an- 
nouncement that  she  was  a  widow,  in  hopes  that  this 
might  put  a  stop  to  any  wicked  gossip  which  should 
assert  that  Count  Strahlberg  was  still  living,  having 
got  a  divorce  and  been  very  glad  to  get  it.  Yet  peo- 
ple talked  about  her,  but  hardly  knew  what  to  bring 
against  her,  because,  though  anything  might  be  sus- 
pected, nothing  was  known.  She  was  received  and  even 
sought  after  in  the  best  society,  on  account  of  her  won- 
derful talents,  which  she  employed  in  a  manner  as  per- 
verse as  everything  else  about  her,  but  which  led  some 
people  to  call  her  the  Judic  des  salons.  Wanda  Strahl- 
berg was  now  holding  between  her  lips,  which  were  arti- 
ficially red,  in  contrast  to  the  greenish  paleness  of  her 
face,  which  caused  others  to  call  her  a  vampire,  one  of 
the  cigarettes  she  had  for  sale.  With  one  hand,  she 
was  playing,  graceful  as  a  cat,  with  her  last  package 
of  regalias,  tied  with  green  ribbon,  which,  when  offered 
to  the  highest  bidder,  brought  an  enormous  sum.  Her 
sister  Colette  was  selling  flowers,  like  several  other 
young  girls,  but  while  for  the  most  part  these  waited  on 
their  customers  in  silence,  she  was  full  of  lively  talk,  and 
as  unblushing  in  her  eagerness  to  sell  as  a  bouquetttre 
by  profession.  She  had  grown  dangerously  pretty. 
Fred  was  dazzled  when  she  wanted  to  fasten  a  rose  into 
his  buttonhole,  and  then,  as  he  paid  for  it,  gave  him  an- 
other, saying:  "And  here  is  another  thrown  in  for  old 
acquaintance'  sake." 

"Charity  seems  to  cover  many  things,"  thought  the 
young  man  as  he  withdrew  from  her  smiles  and  her 

[151] 


TH^O  BENTZON 

glances,  but  yet  he  had  seen  nothing  so  attractive  among 
the  black,  yellow,  green  or  tattooed  ladies  about  whom 
Jacqueline  had  been  pleased  to  tease  him. 

"Fred!" 

It  was  Jacqueline's  voice  that  arrested  him.  It  was 
sharp  and  almost  angry.  She,  too,  was  selling  flowers, 
while  at  the  same  time  she  was  helping  Madame  de 
Nailles  with  her  toys;  but  she  was  selling  with  that 
decorum  and  graceful  reserve  which  custom  prescribes 
for  young  girls.  "Fred,  I  do  hope  you  will  wear  no 
roses  but  mine.  Those  you  have  are  frightful.  They 
make  you  look  like  a  village  bridegroom.  Take  out  those 
things;  come!  Here  is  a  pretty  boutonniere,  and  I  will 
fasten  it  much  better  in  your  buttonhole — let  me." 

In  vain  did  he  try  to  seem  cold  to  her;  his  heart 
thawed  in  spite  of  himself.  She  held  him  so  charmingly 
by  the  lapel  of  his  coat,  touching  his  cheek  with  the 
tip  end  of  an  aigrette  which  set  so  charmingly  on  the 
top  of  the  most  becoming  of  fur  caps  which  she  wore. 
Her  hair  was  turned  up  now,  showing  her  beautiful 
neck,  and  he  could  see  little  rebellious  hairs  curling  at 
their  own  will  over  her  pure,  soft  skin,  while  she,  bend- 
ing forward,  was  engaged  in  his  service.  He  admired, 
too,  her  slender  waist,  only  recently  subjected  to  the 
restraint  of  a  corset.  He  forgave  her  on  the  spot.  At 
this  moment  a  man  with  brown  hair,  tall,  elegant,  and 
with  his  moustache  turned  up  at  the  ends,  after  the 
old  fashion  of  the  Valois,  revived  recently,  came  hur- 
riedly up  to  the  table  of  Madame  de  Nailles.  Fred  felt 
that  that  inimitable  moustache  reduced  his  not  yet 
abundant  beard  to  nothing. 


JACQUELINE 

"  Mademoiselle  Jacqueline,"  said  the  newcomer, 
"Madame  de  Villegry  has  sent  me  to  beg  you  to  help 
her  at  the  buffet.  She  can  not  keep  pace  with  her 
customers,  and  is  asking  for  volunteers." 

All  this  was  uttered  with  a  familiar  assurance  which 
greatly  shocked  the  young  naval  man. 

"You  permit  me,  Madame?" 

The  Baroness  bowed  with  a  smile,  which  said,  had 
he  chosen  to  interpret  it,  "I  give  you  permission  to 
carry  her  off  now — and  forever,  if  you  wish  it." 

At  that  moment  she  was  placing  in  the  half-unwilling 
arms  of  Hubert  Marien  an  enormous  rubber  balloon 
and  a  jumping-jack,  in  return  for  five  louis  which  he 
had  laid  humbly  on  her  table.  But  Jacqueline  had  not 
waited  for  her  stepmother's  permission;  she  let  herself 
be  borne  off  radiant  on  the  arm  of  the  important  per- 
sonage who  had  come  for  her,  while  Colette,  who  per- 
haps had  remarked  the  substitution  for  her  two  roses, 
whispered  in  Fred's  ear,  in  a  tone  of  great  significance : 
"Monsieur  de  Cymier." 

The  poor  fellow  started,  like  a  man  suddenly  awak- 
ened from  a  happy  dream  to  face  the  most  unwelcome 
of  realities.  Impelled  by  that  natural  longing,  that  we 
all  have,  to  know  the  worst,  he  went  toward  the  buffet, 
affecting  a  calmness  which  it  cost  him  a  great  effort  to 
maintain.  As  he  went  along  he  mechanically  gave 
money  to  each  of  the  ladies  whom  he  knew,  moving  off 
without  waiting  for  their  thanks  or  stopping  to  choose 
anything  from  their  tables.  He  seemed  to  feel  the  floor 
rock  under  his  feet,  as  if  he  had  been  walking  the  deck 
of  a  vessel.  At  last  he  reached  a  recess  decorated  with 

[i53] 


TH6O  BENTZON 

palms,  where,  in  a  robe  worthy  of  Peau  d'Ane  in  the 
story,  and  absolutely  a  novelty  in  the  world  of  fashion — 
a  robe  all  embroidered  with  gold  and  rubies,  which 
glittered  with  every  movement  made  by  the  wearer — 
Madame  de  Villegry  was  pouring  out  Russian  tea  and 
Spanish  chocolate  and  Turkish  coffee,  while  all  kinds 
of  deceitful  promises  of  favor  shone  in  her  eyes,  which 
wore  a  certain  tenderness  expressive  of  her  interest  in 
charity.  A  party  of  young  nymphs  formed  the  court 
of  this  fair  goddess,  doing  their  best  to  lend  her  their 
aid.  Jacqueline  was  one  of  them,  and,  at  the  moment 
Fred  approached,  she  was  offering,  with  the  tips  of  her 
fingers,  a  glass  of  champagne  to  M.  de  Cymier,  who  at 
the  same  time  was  eagerly  trying  to  persuade  her  to  be- 
lieve something,  about  which  she  was  gayly  laughing, 
while  she  shook  her  head.  Poor  Fred,  that  he  might 
hear,  and  suffer,  drank  two  mouthfuls  of  sherry  which 
he  could  hardly  swallow. 

"One  who  was  really  charitable  would  not  hesi- 
tate," said  M.  de  Cymier,  "  especially  when  every  sepa- 
rate hair  would  be  paid  for  if  you  chose.  Just  one  little 
curl — for  the  sake  of  the  poor.  It  is  very  often  done: 
anything  is  allowable  for  the  sake  of  the  poor." 

"Maybe  it  is  because,  as  you  say,  that  it  is  very  often 
done  that  I  shall  not  do  it,"  said  Jacqueline,  still  laugh- 
ing. "I  have  made  up  my  mind  never  to  do  what  others 
have  done  before  me." 

"Well,  we  shall  see,"  said  M.  de  Cymier,  pretending 
to  threaten  her. 

And  her  young  head  was  thrown  back  in  a  burst  of 
inextinguishable  laughter. 

[154] 


JACQUELINE 

Fred  fled,  that  he  might  not  be  tempted  to  make  a 
disturbance. 

When  he  found  himself  again  in  the  street,  he  asked 
himself  where  he  should  go.  His  anger  choked  him; 
he  felt  he  could  not  keep  his  resentment  to  himself,  and 
yet,  however  angry  he  might  be  with  Jacqueline,  he 
would  have  been  unwilling  to  hear  his  mother  give  utter- 
ance to  the  very  sentiments  that  he  was  feeling,  or 
to  harsh  judgments,  of  which  he  preferred  to  keep  the 
monopoly.  It  came  into  his  mind  that  he  would  pay  a 
little  visit  to  Giselle,  who,  of  all  the  people  he  knew, 
was  the  least  likely  to  provoke  a  quarrel.  He  had 
heard  that  Madame  de  Talbrun  did  not  go  out,  being 
confined  to  her  sofa  by  much  suffering,  which,  it  might 
be  hoped,  would  soon  come  to  an  end ;  and  the  certainty 
that  he  should  find  her  if  he  called  at  once  .decided  him. 
Since  he  had  been  in  Paris  he  had  done  nothing  but 
leave  cards.  This  time,  however,  he  was  sure  that  the 
lady  upon  whom  he  called  would  be  at  home. 

He  was  taken  at  once  into  the  young  wife's  boudoir, 
where  he  found  her  very  feeble,  lying  back  upon  her 
cushions,  alone,  and  working  at  some  little  bits  of  baby- 
clothes.  He  was  not  slow  to  perceive  that  she  was  very 
glad  to  see  him.  She  flushed  with  pleasure  as  he  came 
into  the  room,  and,  dropping  her  sewing,  held  out  to 
him  two  little,  thin  hands,  white  as  wax. 

"Take  that  footstool — sit  down  there — what  a  great, 
great  pleasure  it  is  to  see  you  back  again!"  She  was 
more  expansive  than  she  had  been  formerly;  she  had 
gained  a  certain  ease  which  comes  from  intercourse 
with  the  world,  but  how  delicate  she  seemed!  Fred  for 

[i55] 


THfiO  BENTZON 

a  moment  looked  at  her  in  silence,  she  seemed  so 
changed  as  she  lay  there  in  a  loose  robe  of  pale  blue 
cashmere,  whose  train  drawn  over  her  feet  made  her 
look  tall  as  it  stretched  to  the  end  of  the  gilded  couch, 
round  which  Giselle  had  collected  all  the  little  things 
required  by  an  invalid — bottles,  boxes,  work-bag, 
dressing-case,  and  writing  materials. 

"You  see,"  she  said,  with  her  soft  smile,  "I  have 
plenty  to  occupy  me,  and  I  venture  to  be  proud  of  my 
work  and  to  think  I  am  creating  marvels." 

As  she  spoke  she  turned  round  on  her  closed  hand  a 
cap  that  seemed  microscopic  to  Fred. 

"What!"  he  cried,  "do  you  expect  him  to  be  small 
enough  to  wear  that!" 

" Him!  you  said  him;  and  I  am  sure  you  will  be 
right.  I  know  it  will  be  a  boy,"  replied  Giselle,  eager- 
ly, her  fair  face  brightened  by  these  words.  "I  have 
some  that  are  still  smaller.  Look!"  and  she  lifted  up  a 
pile  of  things  trimmed  with  ribbons  and  embroidery. 
"See,  these  are  the  first!  Ah!  I  lie  here  and  fancy  how 
he  will  look  when  he  has  them  on.  He  will  be  sweet 
enough  to  eat.  Only  his  papa  wants  us  to  give  him  a 
name  that  I  think  is  too  long  for  him,  because  it  has 
always  been  in  the  family — Enguerrand." 

"His  name  will  be  longer  than  himself,  I  should  say, 
judging  by  the  dimensions  of  this  cap,"  said  Fred,  try- 
ing to  laugh. 

"Bah!"  replied  Giselle,  gayly,  "but  we  can  get  over 
it  by  calling  him  Gue-gue  or  Ra-ra.  What  do  you 
think?  The  difficulty  is  that  names  of  that  kind  are 
apt  to  stick  to  a  boy  for  fifty  years,  and  then  they  seem 

[156] 


JACQUELINE 

ridiculous.  Now  a  pretty  abbreviation  like  Fred  is  an- 
other matter.  But  I  forget  they  have  brought  up  my 
chocolate.  Please  ring,  and  let  them  bring  you  a 
cup.  We  will  take  our  luncheon  together,  as  we  used 
to  do." 

"Thank  you,  I  have  no  appetite.  I  have  just  come 
from  a  certain  buffet  where  I  lost  it  all." 

"Oh!  I  suppose  you  have  been  to  the  Bazaar — the 
famous  Charity  Fair!  You  must  have  made  a  sensa- 
tion there  on  your  return,  for  I  am  told  that  the  gentle- 
men who  are  expected  to  spend  the  most  are  likely  to 
send  their  money,  and  not  to  show  themselves.  There 
are  many  complaints  of  it." 

"There  were  plenty  of  men  round  certain  persons," 
replied  Fred,  dryly.  "Madame  de  Villegry's  table  was 
literally  besieged." 

"Really!  What,  hers!  You  surprise  me!  So  it  was 
the  good  things  she  gave  you  that  make  you  despise  my 
poor  chocolate,"  said  Giselle,  rising  on  her  elbow,  to 
receive  the  smoking  cup  that  a  servant  brought  her  on 
a  little  silver  salver. 

"I  didn't  take  much  at  her  table,"  said  Fred,  ready 
to  enter  on  his  grievances.  "If  you  wish  to  know  the 
reason  why,  I  was  too  indignant  to  eat  or  drink." 

"Indignant?" 

"Yes,  the  word  is  not  at  all  too  strong.  VTien  one 
has  passed  whole  months  away  from  what  is  unwhole- 
some and  artificial,  such  things  as  make  up  life  in  Paris, 
one  becomes  a  little  like  Alceste,  Moliere's  misan- 
thrope, when  one  gets  back  to  them.  It  is  ridiculous  at 
my  age,  and  yet  if  I  were  to  tell  you " 


THfiO  BENTZON 

"What? — you  puzzle  me.  What  can  there  be  that  is 
unwholesome  in  selling  things  for  the  poor?" 

"The  poor!  A  pretty  pretext!  Was  it  to  benefit  the 
poor  that  that  odious  Countess  Strahlberg  made  all 
those  disreputable  grimaces?  I  have  seen  kermesses 
got  up  by  actresses,  and,  upon  my  word,  they  were 
good  form  in  comparison." 

"Oh!  Countess  Strahlberg !  People  have  heard  about 
her  doings  until  they  are  tired  of  them,"  said  Giselle, 
with  that  air  of  knowing  everything  assumed  by  a 
young  wife  whose  husband  has  told  her  all  the  current 
scandals,  as  a  sort  of  initiation. 

"And  her  sister  seems  likely  to  be  as  bad  as  herself 
before  long." 

"Poor  Colette!  She  has  been  so  badly  brought  up. 
It  is  not  her  fault." 

"But  there's  Jacqueline,"  cried  Fred,  in  a  sudden 
outburst,  and  already  feeling  better  because  he  could 
mention  her  name. 

"Allans,  done!  You  don't  mean  to  say  anything 
against  Jacqueline?"  cried  Giselle,  clasping  her  hands 
with  an  air  of  astonishment.  "What  can  she  have  done 
to  scandalize  you — poor  little  dear?" 

Fred  paused  for  half  a  minute,  then  he  drew  the  stool 
in  the  form  of  an  X,  on  which  he  was  sitting,  a  little 
nearer  to  Giselle's  sofa,  and,  lowering  his  voice,  told 
her  how  Jacqueline  had  acted  under  his  very  eyes.  As 
he  went  on,  watching  as  he  spoke  the  effect  his  words 
produced  upon  Giselle,  who  listened  as  if  slightly 
amused  by  his  indignation,  the  case  seemed  not  nearly 
so  bad  as  he  had  supposed,  and  a  delicious  sense  of 

[158] 


JACQUELINE 

relief  crept  over  him  when  she  to  whom  he  told  his 
wrongs,  after  hearing  him  quietly  to  the  end,  said, 
smiling: 

"And  what  then  ?  There  is  no  great  harm  in  all  that. 
Would  you  have  had  her  refuse  to  go  with  the  gentleman 
Madame  de  Villegry  had  sent  to  fetch  her?  And  why, 
may  I  ask,  should  she  not  have  done  her  best  to  help 
by  pouring  out  champagne?  An  air  put  on  to  please 
is  indispensable  to  a  woman,  if  she  wishes  to  sell  any- 
thing. Good  Heavens!  I  don't  approve  any  more 
than  you  do  of  all  these  worldly  forms  of  charity,  but 
this  kind  of  thing  is  considered  right;  it  has  come  into 
fashion.  Jacqueline  had  the  permission  of  her  parents, 
and  I  really  can't  see  any  good  reason  why  you  should 
complain  of  her.  Unless — why  not  tell  me  the  whole 
truth,  Fred?  I  know  it — don't  we  always  know  what 
concerns  the  people  that  we  care  for?  And  I  might 
possibly  some  day  be  of  use  to  you.  Say!  don't  you 
think  you  are — a  little  bit  jealous?" 

Less  encouragement  than  this  would  have  sufficed  to 
make  him  open  his  heart  to  Giselle.  He  was  delighted 
that  some  woman  was  willing  he  should  confide  in  her. 
And  what  was  more,  he  was  glad  to  have  it  proved  that 
he  had  been  all  wrong.  A  quarter  of  an  hour  later 
Giselle  had  comforted  him,  happy  herself  that  it  had 
been  in  her  power  to  undertake  a  task  of  consolation, 
a  work  in  which,  with  sweet  humility,  she  felt  herself 
at  ease.  On  the  great  stage  of  life  she  knew  now  she 
should  never  play  any  important  part,  any  that  would 
bring  her  greatly  into  view.  But  she  felt  that  she  was 
made  to  be  a  confidant,  one  of  those  perfect  confidants 

[i59] 


THfiO  BENTZON 

who  never  attempt  to  interfere  rashly  with  the  course 
of  events,  but  who  wait  upon  the  ways  of  Providence, 
removing  stones,  and  briers  and  thorns,  and  making 
everything  turn  out  for  the  best  in  the  end.  Jacque- 
line, she  said,  was  so  young!  A  little  wild,  perhaps,  but 
what  a  treasure!  She  was  all  heart!  She  would  need 
a  husband  worthy  of  her,  such  a  man  as  Fred.  Ma- 
dame d'Argy,  she  knew,  had  already  said  something  on 
the  subject  to  her  father.  But  it  would  have  to  be  the 
Baroness  that  Fred  must  bring  over  to  their  views;  the 
Baroness  was  acquiring  more  and  more  influence  over 
her  husband,  who  seemed  to  be  growing  older  every 
day.  M.  de  Nailles  had  evidently  much,  very  much 
upon  his  mind.  It  was  said  in  business  circles  that  he 
had  for  some  time  past  been  given  to  speculation. 
Oscar  said  so.  If  that  were  the  case,  many  of  Jacque- 
line's suitors  might  withdraw.  Not  all  men  were  so 
disinterested  as  Fred. 

"Oh!  As  to  her  dot — what  do  I  care  for  her  dot?" 
cried  the  young  man.  "I  have  enough  for  two,  if  she 
would  only  be  satisfied  to  live  quietly  at  Lizerolles!" 

"Yes,"  said  the  judicious  little  matron,  nodding  her 
head,  "but  who  would  like  to  marry  a  midshipman? 
Make  haste  and  be  a  lieutenant,  or  an  ensign." 

She  smiled  at  herself  for  having  made  the  reward 
depend  upon  exertion,  with  a  sort  of  maternal  instinct. 
It  was  the  same  instinct  that  would  lead  her  in  the 
future  to  promise  Enguerrand  a  sugar-plum  if  he  said 
his  lesson.  "Nobody  will  steal  your  Jacqueline  till  you 
are  ready  to  carry  her  off.  Besides,  if  there  were  any 
danger  I  could  give  you  timely  warning." 

[160] 


JACQUELINE 

"Ah!  Giselle,  if  she  only  had  your  kind  heart — your 
good  sense." 

"Do  you  think  I  am  better  and  more  reasonable  than 
other  people  ?  In  what  way  ?  I  have  done  as  so  many 
other  girls  do;  I  have  married  without  knowing  well 
what  I  was  doing." 

She  stopped  short,  fearing  she  might  have  said  too 
much,  and  indeed  Fred  looked  at  her  anxiously. 

"You  don't  regret  it,  do  you?" 

"You  must  ask  Monsieur  de  Talbrun  if  he  regrets 
it,"  she  said,  with  a  laugh.  "  It  must  be  hard  on  him  to 
have  a  sick  wife,  who  knows  little  of  what  is  passing 
outside  of  her  own  chamber,  who  is  living  on  her  re- 
serve fund  of  resources — a  very  poor  little  reserve  fund 
it  is,  too!" 

Then,  as  if  she  thought  that  Fred  had  been  with  her 
long  enough,  she  said:  "I  would  ask  you  to  stay  and 
see  Monsieur  de  Talbrun,  but  he  won't  be  in,  he  dines 
at  his  club.  He  is  going  to  see  a  new  play  to-night 
which  they  say  promises  to  be  very  good." 

"What!    Will  he  leave  you  alone  all  the  evening?" 

"Oh!  I  am  very  glad  he  should  find  amusement. 
Just  think  how  long  it  is  that  I  have  been  pinned  down 
here!  Poor  Oscar!" 


CHAPTER  X 

GISELLE'S  CONSOLATION 

'HE  arrival  of  the  expected  Enguerrand 
hindered  Giselle  from  pleading  Fred's 
cause  as  soon  as  she  could  have 
wished.  Her  life  for  twenty-four 
hours  was  in  great  danger,  and  when 
the  crisis  was  past,  which  M.  de  Tal- 
brun  treated  very  indifferently,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  her  first  cry  was 
"My  baby!"  uttered  in  a  tone  of  tender  eagerness  such 
as  had  never  been  heard  from  her  lips  before. 

The  nurse  brought  him.  He  lay  asleep  swathed  in  his 
swaddling  clothes  like  a  mummy  in  its  wrappings,  a 
motionless,  mysterious  being,  but  he  seemed  to  his 
mother  beautiful — more  beautiful  than  anything  she 
had  seen  in  those  vague  visions  of  happiness  she  had 
indulged  in  at  the  convent,  which  were  never  to  be 
realized.  She  kissed  his  little  purple  face,  his  closed 
eyelids,  his  puckered  mouth,  with  a  sort  of  respectful 
awe.  She  was  forbidden  to  fatigue  herself.  The  wet- 
nurse,  who  had  been  brought  from  Picardy,  drew  near 
with  her  peasant  cap  trimmed  with  long  blue  streamers; 
her  big,  experienced  hands  took  the  baby  from  his 
mother,  she  turned  him  over  on  her  lap,  she  patted  him, 
she  laughed  at  him.  And  the  mother-happiness  that 
had  lighted  up  Giselle's  pale  face  died  away. 

[162] 


JACQUELINE 

"What  right,"  she  thought,  "has  that  woman  to  my 
child?"  She  envied  the  horrid  creature,  coarse  and 
stout,  with  her  tanned  face,  her  bovine  features,  her 
shapeless  figure,  who  seemed  as  if  Nature  had  predes- 
tined her  to  give  milk  and  nothing  more.  Giselle  would 
so  gladly  have  been  in  her  place!  Why  wouldn't  they 
permit  her  to  nurse  her  baby? 

M.  de  Talbrun  said  in  answer  to  this  question: 

"  It  is  never  done  among  people  in  our  position.  You 
have  no  idea  of  all  it  would  entail  on  you — what  slavery, 
what  fatigue !  And  most  probably  you  would  not  have 
had  milk  enough." 

"Oh!  who  can  tell?  I  am  his  mother!  And  when 
this  woman  goes  he  will  have  to  have  English  nurses, 
and  when  he  is  older  he  will  have  to  go  to  school.  When 
shall  I  have  him  to  myself?" 

And  she  began  to  cry. 

"Come,  come!"  said  M.  de  Talbrun,  much  aston- 
ished, "all  this  fuss  about  that  frightful  little  monkey!" 

Giselle  looked  at  him  almost  as  much  astonished  as 
he  had  been  at  her.  Love,  with  its  jealousy,  its  trans- 
ports, its  anguish,  its  delights  had  for  the  first  time 
come  to  her — the  love  that  she  could  not  feel  for  her 
husband  awoke  in  her  for  her  son.  She  was  ennobled 
— she  was  transfigured  by  a  sense  of  her  maternity;  it 
did  for  her  what  marriage  does  for  some  women — it 
seemed  as  if  a  sudden  radiance  surrounded  her. 

When  she  raised  her  infant  in  her  arms,  to  show  him 
to  those  who  came  to  see  her,  she  always  seemed  like  a 
most  chaste  and  touching  representation  of  the  Virgin 
Mother.  She  would  say,  as  she  exhibited  him:  "Is  he 

[163] 


THfiO  BENTZON 

not  superb?"  Every  one  said :  "  Yes,  indeed !"  out  of 
politeness,  but,  on  leaving  the  mother's  presence,  would 
generally  remark:  "He  is  Monsieur  de  Talbrun  in 
baby-clothes:  the  likeness  is  perfectly  horrible!" 

The  only  visitor  who  made  no  secret  of  this  impres- 
sion was  Jacqueline,  who  came  to  see  her  cousin  as 
soon  as  she  was  permitted — that  is,  as  soon  as  her 
friend  was  able  to  sit  up  and  be  prettily  dressed,  as  be- 
came the  mother  of  such  a  little  gentleman  as  the  heir 
of  all  the  Talbruns.  When  Jacqueline  saw  the  little 
creature  half-smothered  in  the  lace  that  trimmed  his 
pillows,  she  burst  out  laughing,  though  it  was  in  the 
presence  of  his  mother. 

"Oh,  mon  Dieu!"  she  cried,  "how  ugly!  I  never 
should  have  supposed  we  could  have  been  as  ugly  as 
that!  Why,  his  face  is  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow; 
who  would  have  imagined  it  ?  And  he  crumples  up  his 
little  face  like  those  things  in  gutta-percha.  My  poor 
Giselle,  how  can  you  bear  to  show  him !  I  never,  never 
could  covet  a  baby!" 

Giselle,  in  consternation,  asked  herself  whether  this 
strange  girl,  who  did  not  care  for  children,  could  be  a 
proper  wife  for  Fred ;  but  her  habitual  indulgence  came 
to  her  aid,  and  she  thought: 

"She  is  but  a  child  herself,  she  does  not  know  what 
she  is  saying,"  and  profiting  by  her  first  tete-a-tete  with 
Jacqueline's  stepmother,  she  spoke  as  she  had  promised 
to  Madame  de  Nailles. 

"A  matchmaker  already!"  said  the  Baroness,  with 
a  smile.  "And  so  soon  after  you  have  found  out  what 
it  costs  to  be  a  mother!  How  good  of  you,  my  dear 

[164] 


JACQUELINE 

Giselle!  So  you  support  Fred  as  a  candidate?  But 
I  can't  say  I  think  he  has  much  chance;  Monsieur  de 
Nailles  has  his  own  ideas." 

She  spoke  as  if  she  really  thought  that  M.  de  Nailles 
could  have  any  ideas  but  her  own.  When  the  adroit 
Clotilde  was  at  a  loss,  she  was  likely  to  evoke  this  chi- 
merical notion  of  her  husband's  having  an  opinion  of 
his  own. 

"Oh!  Madame,  you  can  do  anything  you  like  with 
him!" 

The  clever  woman  sighed : 

"So  you  fancy  that  when  people  have  been  long  mar- 
ried a  wife  retains  as  much  influence  over  her  husband 
as  you  have  kept  over  Monsieur  de  Talbrun?  You 
will  learn  to  know  better,  my  dear." 

"But  I  have  no  influence,"  murmured  Giselle,  who 
knew  herself  to  be  her  husband's  slave. 

"Oh!  I  know  better.    You  are  making  believe !" 

"Well,  but  we  were  not  talking  about  me,  but 

"Oh!  yes.  I  understood.  I  will  think  about  it.  I 
will  try  to  bring  over  Monsieur  de  Nailles." 

She  was  not  at  all  disposed  to  drop  the  meat  for  the 
sake  of  the  shadow,  but  she  was  not  sure  of  M.  de 
Cymier,  notwithstanding  all  that  Madame  de  Villegry 
was  at  pains  to  tell  her  about  his  serious  intentions.  On 
the  other  hand,  she  would  have  been  far  from  willing 
to  break  with  a  man  so  brilliant,  who  made  himself  so 
agreeable  at  her  Tuesday  receptions. 

"Meantime,  it  would  be  well  if  you,  dear,  were  to  try 
to  find  out  what  Jacqueline  thinks.  You  may  not  find 
it  very  easy." 

[165] 


TH6O  BENTZON 

/'Will  you  authorize  me  to  tell  her  how  well  he  loves 
her?  Oh,  then,  I  am  quite  satisfied!"  cried  Giselle. 

But  she  was  under  a  mistake.  Jacqueline,  as  soon 
as  she  began  to  speak  to  her  of  Fred's  suit,  stopped  her: 

"Poor  fellow!  Why  can't  he  amuse  himself  for  some 
time  longer  and  let  me  do  the  same  ?  Men  seem  to  me 
so  strange !  Now,  Fred  is  one  who,  just  because  he  is 
good  and  serious  by  nature,  fancies  that  everybody  else 
should  be  the  same ;  he  wishes  me  to  be  tethered  in  the 
flowery  meads  of  Lizerolles,  and  browse  where  he 
would  place  me.  Such  a  life  would  be  an  end  of  every- 
thing— an  end  to  my  life,  and  I  should  not  like  it  at  all. 
I  should  prefer  to  grow  old  in  Paris,  or  some  other  capi- 
tal, if  my  husband  happened  to  be  engaged  in  diplo- 
macy. Even  supposing  I  marry — which  I  do  not  think 
an  absolute  necessity,  unless  I  can  not  get  rid  otherwise 
of  an  inconvenient  chaperon — and  to  do  my  stepmother 
justice,  she  knows  well  enough  that  I  will  not  submit  to 
too  much  of  her  dictation!" 

"  Jacqueline,  they  say  you  see  too  much  of  the  Odin- 
skas." 

"There!  that's  another  fault  you  find  in  me.  I  go 
there  because  Madame  Strahlberg  is  so  kind  as  to 
give  me  some  singing-lessons.  If  you  only  knew  how 
much  progress  I  am  making,  thanks  to  her.  Music  is 
a  thousand  times  more  interesting,  I  can  tell  you,  than 
all  that  you  can  do  as  mistress  of  a  household.  You 
don't  think  so?  Oh!  I  know — Enguerrand's  first 
tooth,  his  first  steps,  his  first  gleams  of  intelligence,  and 
all  that.  Such  things  are  not  in  my  line,  you  know. 
Of  course  I  think  your  boy  very  funny,  very  cunning, 

[166]  ' 


JACQUELINE 

very — anything  you  like  to  fancy  him,  but  forgive  me  if 
I  am  glad  he  does  not  belong  to  me.  There,  don't  you 
see  now  that  marriage  is  not  my  vocation,  so  please  give 
up  speaking  to  me  about  matrimony." 

"As  you  will,"  said  Giselle,  sadly,  "but  you  will  give 
great  pain  to  a  good  man  whose  heart  is  wholly  yours." 

"I  did  not  ask  for  his  heart.  Such  gifts  are  exasper- 
ating. One  does  not  know  what  to  do  with  them. 
Can't  he — poor  Fred — love  me  as  I  love  him,  and  leave 
me  my  liberty?" 

"Your  liberty!"  exclaimed  Giselle;  "liberty  to  ruin 
your  life,  that's  what  it  will  be." 

"Really,  one  would  suppose  there  was  only  one  kind 
of  existence  in  your  eyes — this  life  of  your  own,  Giselle. 
To  leave  one  cage  to  be  shut  up  in  another — that  is  the 
fate  of  many  birds,  I  know,  but  there  are  others  who 
like  to  use  their  wings  to  soar  into  the  air.  I  like  that 
expression.  Come,  little  mother,  tell  me  right  out, 
plainly,  that  your  lot  is  the  only  one  in  this  world  that 
ought  to  be  envied  by  a  woman." 

Giselle  answered  with  a  strange  smile: 

"You  seem  astonished  that  I  adore  my  baby;  but 
since  he  came  great  things  seem  to  have  been  revealed 
to  me.  When  I  hold  him  to  my  breast  I  seem  to  un- 
derstand, as  I  never  did  before,  duty  and  marriage, 
family  ties  and  sorrows,  life  itself,  in  short,  its  griefs 
and  joys.  You  can  not  understand  that  now,  but  you 
will  some  day.  You,  too,  will  gaze  upon  the  horizon  as 
I  do.  I  am  ready  to  suffer;  I  am  ready  for  self-sacrifice. 
I  know  now  whither  my  life  leads  me.  I  am  led,  as  it 
were,  by  this  little  being,  who  seemed  to  me  at  first  only 


TH£0  BENTZON 

a  doll,  for  whom  I  was  embroidering  caps  and  dresses. 
You  ask  whether  I  am  satisfied  with  my  lot  in  life. 
Yes,  I  am,  thanks  to  this  guide,  this  guardian  angel, 
thanks  to  my  precious  Enguerrand." 

Jacqueline  listened,  stupefied,  to  this  unexpected  out- 
burst, so  unlike  her  cousin's  usual  language;  but  the 
charm  was  broken  by  its  ending  with  the  tremendous- 
ly long  name  of  Enguerrand,  which  always  made  her 
laugh,  it  was  in  such  perfect  harmony  with  the  feudal 
pretensions  of  the  Monredons  and  the  Talbruns. 

"How  solemn  and  eloquent  and  obscure  you  are,  my 
dear,"  she  answered.  "You  speak  like  a  sibyl.  But 
one  thing  I  see,  and  that  is  that  you  are  not  so  perfectly 
happy  as  you  would  have  us  believe,  seeing  that  you 
feel  the  need  of  consolations.  Then,  why  do  you  wish 
me  to  follow  your  example?" 

"Fred  is  not  Monsieur  de  Talbrun,"  said  the  young 
wife,  for  the  moment  forgetting  herself. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say— 

"I  meant  nothing,  except  that  if  you  married  Fred 
you  would  have  had  the  advantage  of  first  knowing 
him." 

"Ah!  that's  your  fixed  idea.  But  I  am  getting  to 
know  Monsieur  de  Cymier  pretty  well." 

"You  have  betrayed  yourself,"  cried  Giselle,  with  in- 
dignation .  ' '  Monsieur  de  Cymier ! ' ' 

"Monsieur  de  Cymier  is  coming  to  our  house  on 
Saturday  evening,  and  I  must  get  up  a  Spanish  song 
that  Madame  Strahlberg  has  taught  me,  to  charm  his 
ears  and  those  of  other  people.  Oh!  I  can  do  it  very 
well.  Won't  you  come  and  hear  me  play  the  castanets, 


JACQUELINE 

if  Monsieur  Enguerrand  can  spare  you?  There  is  a 
young  Polish  pianist  who  is  to  play  our  accompaniment. 
Ah,  there  is  nothing  like  a  Polish  pianist  to  play  Chopin ! 
He  is  charming,  poor  young  man !  an  exile,  and  in  pov- 
erty; but  he  is  cared  for  by  those  ladies,  who  take  him 
everywhere.  That  is  the  sort  of  life  I  should  like — the 
life  of  Madame  Strahlberg — to  be  a  young  widow, 
free  to  do  what  I  pleased." 

"She  may  be  a  widow — but  some  say  she  is  di- 
vorced." 

"Oh!  is  it  you  who  repeat  such  naughty  scandals, 
Giselle  ?  Where  shall  charity  take  refuge  in  this  world 
if  not  in  your  heart?  I  am  going — your  seriousness 
may  be  catching.  Kiss  me  before  I  go." 

"No,"  said  Madame  de  Talbrun,  turning  her  head 
away. 

After  this  she  asked  herself  whether  she  ought  not 
to  discourage  Fred.  She  could  not  resolve  on  doing 
so,  yet  she  could  not  tell  him  what  was  false;  but  by 
eluding  the  truth  with  that  ability  which  kind-hearted 
women  can  always  show  when  they  try  to  avoid  inflict- 
ing pain,  she  succeeded  in  leaving  the  young  man  hope 
enough  to  stimulate  his  ambition. 


[169] 


CHAPTER  XI 

FRED   ASKS   A   QUESTION 

JlME,  whatever  may  be  said  of  it  by 
the  calendars,  is  not  to  be  measured 
by  days,  weeks,  and  months  in  all 
cases;  expectation,  hope,  happiness 
and  grief  have  very  different  ways 
of  counting  hours,  and  we  know 
from  our  own  experience  that  some 
are  as  short  as  a  minute,  and  others 
as  long  as  a  century.  The  love  or  the  suffering  of 
those  who  can  tell  just  how  long  they  have  suffered, 
or  just  how  long  they  have  been  in  love,  is  only  moder- 
ate and  reasonable. 

Madame  d'Argy  found  the  two  lonely  years  she 
passed  awaiting  the  return  of  her  son,  who  was  win- 
ning his  promotion  to  the  rank  of  ensign,  so  long,  that 
it  seemed  to  her  as  if  they  never  would  come  to  an 
end.  She  had  given  a  reluctant  consent  to  his  notion 
of  adopting  the  navy  as  a  profession,  thinking  that 
perhaps,  after  all,  there  might  be  no  harm  in  allowing 
her  dear  boy  to  pass  the  most  dangerous  period  of  his 
youth  under  strict  discipline,  but  she  could  not  be 
patient  forever!  She  idolized  her  son  too  much  to  be 
resigned  to  living  without  him;  she  felt  that  he  was 
hers  no  longer.  Either  he  was  at  sea  or  at  Toulon, 

[170] 


JACQUELINE 

where  she  could  very  rarely  join  him,  being  detained 
at  Lizerolles  by  the  necessity  of  looking  after  their 
property.  With  what  eagerness  she  awaited  his  pro- 
motion, which  she  did  not  doubt  was  all  the  Nailles 
waited  for  to  give  their  consent  to  the  marriage;  of 
their  happy  half-consent  she  hastened  to  remind  them 
in  a  note  which  announced  the  new  grade  to  which 
he  had  been  promoted.  Her  indignation  was  great 
on  finding  that  her  formal  request  received  no  decided 
answer;  but,  as  her  first  object  was  Fred's  happiness, 
she  placed  the  reply  she  had  received  in  its  most  favor- 
able light  when  she  forwarded  it  to  the  person  whom  it 
most  concerned.  She  did  this  in  all  honesty.  She 
was  not  willing  to  admit  that  she  was  being  put  off 
with  excuses;  still  less  could  she  believe  in  a  refusal. 

She  accepted  the  excuse  that  M.  de  Nailles  gave  for 
returning  no  decided  answer,  viz.:  that  "Jacqueline 
was  too  young,"  though  she  answered  him  with  some 
vehemence:  "Fred  was  born  when  I  was  eighteen." 
But  she  had  to  accept  it.  Her  ensign  would  have 
to  pass  a  few  more  months  on  the  coast  of  Senegal, 
a  few  more  months  which  were  made  shorter  by  the 
encouragement  forwarded  to  him  by  his  mother,  who 
was  careful  to  send  him  everything  she  could  find  out 
that  seemed  to  be,  or  that  she  imagined  might  be,  in 
his  favor;  she  underlined  such  things  and  commented 
upon  them,  so  as  to  make  the  faintest  hypothesis  seem 
a  certainty.  Sometimes  she  did  not  even  wait  for  the 
post.  Fred  would  find,  on  putting  in  at  some  post,  a 
cablegram:  "Good  news,"  or  "All  goes  well,"  and  he 
would  be  beside  himself  with  joy  and  excitement  until, 

' 


TH£0  BENTZON 

on  receiving  his  poor,  dear  mother's  next  letter,  he 
found  out  on  how  slight  a  foundation  her  assurance 
had  been  founded. 

Sometimes,  she  wrote  him  disagreeable  things  about 
Jacqueline,  as  if  she  would  like  to  disenchant  him,  and 
then  he  said  to  himself:  "By  this,  I  am  to  understand 
that  my  affairs  are  not  going  on  well;  I  still  count  for 
little,  notwithstanding  my  promotion."  Ah!  if  he 
could  only  have  had,  so  near  the  beginning  of  his 
career,  any  opportunity  of  distinguishing  himself!  No 
brilliant  deed  would  have  been  too  hard  for  him.  He 
would  have  scaled  the  very  skies.  Alas!  he  had  had 
no  chance  to  win  distinction,  he  had  only  had  to  follow 
in  the  beaten  track  of  ordinary  duty;  he  had  encoun- 
tered no  glorious  perils,  though  at  St.  Louis  he  had 
come  very  near  leaving  his  bones,  but  it  was  only  a  case 
of  typhoid  fever.  This  fever,  however,  brought  about 
a  scene  between  M.  de  Nailles  and  his  mother. 

"When,"  she  cried,  with  all  the  fury  of  a  lioness, 
"do  you  expect  to  come  to  the  conclusion  that  my  son 
is  a  suitable  match  for  Jacqueline?  Do  you  imagine 
that  I  shall  let  him  wait  till  he  is  a  post-captain  to 
satisfy  the  requirements  of  Mademoiselle  your  daughter 
— provided  he  does  not  die  in  a  hospital  ?  Do  you  think 
that  I  shall  be  willing  to  go  on  living — if  you  can  call 
it  living! — all  alone  and  in  continual  apprehension? 
Why  do  you  let  him  keep  on  in  uncertainty?  You 
know  his  worth,  and  you  know  that  with  him  Jacque- 
line would  be  happy.  Instead  of  that — instead  of  say- 
ing once  for  all  to  this  young  man,  who  is  more  in 
love  with  her  than  any  other  man  will  ever  be:  ' There, 

[172] 


JACQUELINE 

take  her,  I  give  her  to  you,'  which  would  be  the  straight- 
forward, sensible  way,  you  go  on  encouraging  the  ca- 
prices of  a  child  who  will  end  by  wasting,  in  the  life 
you  are  permitting  her  to  lead,  all  the  good  qualities 
she  has  and  keeping  nothing  but  the  bad  ones." 

"Mon  Dieu!  I  can't  see  that  Jacqueline  leads  a  life 
like  that!"  said  M.  de  Nailles,  who  felt  that  he  must 
say  something. 

"You  don't  see,  you  don't  see!  How  can  any  one 
see  who  won't  open  his  eyes?  My  poor  friend,  just 
look  for  once  at  what  is  going  on  around  you,  under 
your  own  roof— 

"Jacqueline  is  devoted  to  music,"  said  her  father, 
good-humoredly.  Madame  d'Argy  in  her  heart  thought 
he  was  losing  his  mind. 

And  in  truth  he  was  growing  older  day  by  day,  be- 
coming more  and  more  anxious,  more  and  more  ab- 
sorbed in  the  great  struggle — not  for  life;  that  might 
exhaust  a  man,  but  at  least  it  was  energetic  and  noble 
— but  for  superfluous  wealth,  for  vanity,  for  luxury, 
which,  for  his  own  part,  he  cared  nothing  for,  and 
which  he  purchased  dearly,  spurred  on  to  exertion  by 
those  near  to  him,  who  insisted  on  extravagances. 

"Oh!  yes,  Jacqueline,  I  know,  is  devoted  to  music," 
went  on  Madame  d'Argy,  with  an  air  of  extreme  dis- 
approval, "too  much  so!  And  when  she  is  able  to 
sing  like  Madame  Strahlberg,  what  good  will  it  do 
her  ?  Even  now  I  see  more  than  one  little  thing  about 
her  that  needs  to  be  reformed.  How  can  she  escape 
spoiling  in  that  crowd  of  Slavs  and  Yankees,  people  of 
no  position  probably  in  their  own  countries,  with  whom, 

tml 


BENTZON 

you  permit  her  to  associate  ?  People  nowadays  are  so 
imprudent  about  acquaintances!  To  be  a  foreigner  is 
a  passport  into  society.  Just  think  what  her  poor 
mother  would  have  said  to  the  bad  manners  she  is 
adopting  from  all  parts  of  the  globe?  My  poor,  dear 
Adelaide!  She  was  a  genuine  Frenchwoman  of  the 
old  type;  there  are  not  many  such  left  now.  Ah!" 
continued  Madame  d'Argy,  without  any  apparent  con- 
nection with  her  subject,  "Monsieur  de  Talbrun's 
mother,  if  he  had  one,  would  be  truly  happy  to  see  him 
married  to  Giselle!" 

"But,"  faltered  M.  de  Nailles,  struck  by  the  truth 
of  some  of  these  remarks,  "I  make  no  opposition— 
quite  the  contrary — I  have  spoken  several  times  about 
your  son,  but  I  was  not  listened  to!" 

"What  can  she  say  against  Fred?" 

"Nothing.  She  is  very  fond  of  him,  that  you  know 
as  well  as  I  do.  But  those  childish  attachments  do 
not  necessarily  lead  to  love  and  marriage." 

"Friendship  on  her  side  might  be  enough,"  said 
Madame  d'Argy,  in  the  tone  of  a  woman  who  had 
never  known  more  than  that  in  marriage.  "My  poor 
Fred  has  enthusiasm  and  all  that,  enough  for  two. 
And  in  time  she  will  be  madly  in  love  with  him — she 
must!  It  is  impossible  it  should  be  otherwise." 

"Very  good,  persuade  her  yourself  if  you  can;  but 
Jacqueline  has  a  pretty  strong  will  of  her  own." 

Jacqueline's  will  was  a  reality,  though  the  ideas  of 
M.  de  Nailles  may  have  been  illusion. 

"And  my  wife,  too!"  resumed  the  Baron,  after  a 
long  sigh.  "I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  Jacqueline, 


JACQUELINE 

as  she  has  grown  up,  has  become  like  an  unbroken 
colt,  and  those  two,  who  were  once  all  in  all  to  each 
other,  are  now  seldom  of  one  mind.  How  am  I  to  act 
when  their  two  wills  cross  mine,  as  they  often  do? 
I  have  so  many  things  on  my  mind.  There  are  times 

when " 

"Yes,  one  can  see  that.  You  don't  seem  to  know 
where  you  are.  And  do  you  think  that  the  disposition 
she  shows  to  act,  as  you  say,  like  an  unbroken  colt,  is 
nothing  to  me  ?  Do  you  think  I  am  quite  satisfied  with 
my  son's  choice?  I  could  have  wished  that  he  had 
chosen  for  his  wife — but  what  is  the  use  of  saying 
what  I  wished  ?  The  important  thing  is  that  he  should 
be  happy  in  his  own  way.  Besides,  I  dare  say  the  young 
thing  will  calm  down  of  her  own  accord.  Her  mother's 
daughter  must  be  good  at  heart.  All  will  come  right 
when  she  is  removed  from  a  circle  which  is  doing  her 
no  good;  it  is  injuring  her  in  people's  opinion  already, 
you  must  know.  And  how  will  it  be  by-and-bye? 
I  hear  people  saying  everywhere :  '  How  can  the  Nailles 
let  that  young  girl  associate  so  much  with  foreigners?' 
You  say  they  are  old  school-fellows,  they  went  to  the 
cours  together.  But  see  if  Madame  d'Etaples  and 
Madame  Ray,  under  the  same  pretext,  let  Isabelle  and 
Yvonne  associate  with  the  Odinskas!  As  to  that 
foolish  woman,  Madame  d'Avrigny,  she  goes  to  their 
house  to  look  up  recruits  for  her  operettas,  and  Madame 
Strahlberg  has  one  advantage  over  regular  artists,  there 
is  no  call  to  pay  her.  That  is  the  reason  why  she 
invites  her.  Besides  which,  she  won't  find  it  so  easy 
to  marry  Dolly." 


BENTZON 

"Oh!  there  are  several  reasons  for  that,"  said  the 
Baron,  who  could  see  the  mote  in  his  neighbor's  eye, 
"Mademoiselle  d'Avrigny  has  led  a  life  so  very  worldly 
ever  since  she  was  a  child,  so  madly  fast  and  lively,  that 
suitors  are  afraid  of  her.  Jacqueline,  thank  heaven, 
has  never  yet  been  in  what  is  called  the  world.  She 
only  visits  those  with  whom  she  is  on  terms  of  in- 
timacy." 

"An  intimacy  which  includes  all  Paris,"  said  Madame 
d'Argy,  raising  her  eyes  to  heaven.  "If  she  does  not 
go  to  great  balls,  it  is  only  because  her  stepmother  is 
bored  by  them.  But  with  that  exception  it  seems  to 
me  she  is  allowed  to  do  anything.  I  don't  see  the  dif- 
ference. But,  to  be  sure,  if  Jacqueline  is  not  for  us, 
you  have  a  right  to  say  that  I  am  interfering  in  what 
does  not  concern  me." 

"Not  at  all,"  said  the  unfortunate  father,  "I  feel 
how  much  I  ought  to  value  your  advice,  and  an  alliance 
with  your  family  would  please  me  more  than  any- 
thing." 

He  said  the  truth,  for  he  was  disturbed  by  seeing 
M.  de  Cymier  so  slow  in  making  his  proposals,  and 
he  was  also  aware  that  young  girls  in  our  day  are  less 
sought  for  in  marriage  than  they  used  to  be.  His 
friend  Wermant,  rich  as  he  was,  had  had  some  trouble 
in  capturing  for  Berthe  a  fellow  of  no  account  in  the 
Faubourg  St.  Germain,  and  the  prize  was  not  much 
to  be  envied.  He  was  a  young  man  without  brains 
and  without  a  sou,  who  enjoyed  so  little  consideration 
among  his  own  people  that  his  wife  had  not  been  re- 
ceived as  she  expected,  and  no  one  spoke  of  Madame 

[176] 


JACQUELINE 

de  Belvan  without  adding:    "You  know,  that  little 
Wermant,  daughter  of  the  agent  de  change." 

Of  course,  Jacqueline  had  the  advantage  of  good 
birth  over  Berthe,  but  how  great  was  her  inferiority 
in  point  of  fortune!  M.  de  Nailles  sometimes  confided 
these  perplexities  to  his  wife,  without,  however,  receiv- 
ing much  comfort  from  her.  Nor  did  the  Baroness 
confess  to  her  husband  all  her  own  fears.  In  secret 
she  often  asked  herself,  with  the  keen  insight  of  a  woman 
of  the  world  well  trained  in  artifice  and  who  possessed 
a  thorough  knowledge  of  mankind,  whether  there 
might  not  be  women  capable  of  using  a  young  girl 
so  as  to  put  the  world  on  a  wrong  scent;  whether,  in 
other  words,  Madame  de  Villegry  did  not  talk  every- 
where about  M.  de  Cymier's  attentions  to  Mademoiselle 
de  Nailles  in  order  to  conceal  his  relations  to  herself? 
Madame  de  Villegry  indeed  cared  little  about  standing 
well  in  public  opinion,  but  rather  the  contrary;  she 
would  not,  however,  for  the  world  have  been  willing, 
by  too  openly  favoring  one  man  among  her  admirers, 
to  run  the  risk  of  putting  the  rest  to  flight.  No  doubt 
M.  de  Cymier  was  most  assiduous  in  his  attendance 
on  the  receptions  and  dances  at  Madame  de  Nailles' s, 
but  he  was  there  always  at  the  same  time  as  Madame 
de  Villegry  herself.  They  would  hold  whispered  con- 
ferences in  corners,  which  might  possibly  have  been 
about  Jacqueline,  but  there  was  no  proof  that  they 
were  so,  except  what  Madame  de  Villegry  herself 
said.  "At  any  rate,"  thought  Madame  de  Nailles, 
"if  Fred  comes  forward  as  a  suitor  it  may  stimulate 
Monsieur  de  Cymier.  There  are  men  who  put  off 
12  [177] 


THEO  BENTZON 

taking  a  decisive  step  till  the  last  moment,  and  are 
only  to  be  spurred  up  by  competition." 

So  every  opportunity  was  given  to  Fred  to  talk 
freely  with  Jacqueline  when  he  returned  to  Paris. 
By  this  time  he  wore  two  gold-lace  stripes  upon  his 
sleeve.  But  Jacqueline  avoided  any  tete-a-tete  with 
him  as  if  she  understood  the  danger  that  awaited  her. 
She  gave  him  no  chance  of  speaking  alone  writh  her. 
She  was  friendly — nay,  sometimes  affectionate  when 
other  people  were  near  them,  but  more  commonly  she 
teased  him,  bewildered  him,  excited  him.  After  an 
hour  or  two  spent  in  her  society  he  would  go  home 
sometimes  savage,  sometimes  desponding,  to  ponder 
in  his  own  room,  and  in  his  own  heart,  what  inter- 
pretation he  ought  to  put  upon  the  things  that  she 
had  said  to  him. 

The  more  he  thought,  the  less  he  understood.  He 
would  not  have  confided  in  his  mother  for  the  world; 
she  might  have  cast  blame  on  Jacqueline.  Besides  her, 
he  had  no  one  who  could  receive  his  confidences,  who 
would  bear  with  his  perplexities,  who  could  assist  in 
delivering  him  from  the  network  of  hopes  and  fears  in 
which,  after  every  interview  with  Jacqueline,  he  seemed 
to  himself  to  become  more  and  more  entangled. 

At  last,  however,  at  one  of  the  soirees  given  every 
fortnight  by  Madame  de  Nailles,  he  succeeded  in 
gaming  her  attention. 

"Give  me  this  quadrille,"  he  said  to  her. 

And,  as  she  could  not  well  refuse,  he  added,  as  soon 
as  she  had  taken  his  arm:  "We  will  not  dance,  and  I 
defy  you  to  escape  me." 

[178] 


JACQUELINE 

"This  is  treason!"  she  cried,  somewhat  angrily. 
"We  are  not  here  to  talk;  I  can  almost  guess  before- 
hand what  you  have  to  say,  and " 

But  he  had  made  her  sit  down  in  the  recess  of  that 
bow-window  which  had  been  called  the  young  girls' 
corner  years  ago.  He  stood  before  her,  preventing 
her  escape,  and  half -laughing,  though  he  was  deeply 
moved. 

"Since  you  have  guessed  what  I  wanted  to  say, 
answer  me  quickly." 

"Must  I?  Must  I,  really?  Why  didn't  you  ask  my 
father  to  do  your  commission?  It  is  so  horribly  disa- 
greeable to  do  these  things  for  one's  self." 

"That  depends  upon  what  the  things  may  be  that 
have  to  be  said.  I  should  think  it  ought  to  be  very 
agreeable  to  pronounce  the  word  on  which  the  happi- 
ness of  a  whole  life  is  to  depend." 

"Oh!  what  a  grand  phrase !  As  if  I  could  be  essen- 
tial to  anybody's  happiness?  You  can't  make  me  be- 
lieve that!" 

"You  are  mistaken.  You  are  indispensable  to 
mine." 

"There!  my  declaration  has  been  made,"  thought 
Fred,  much  relieved  that  it  was  over,  for  he  had  been 
afraid  to  pronounce  the  decisive  words. 

"Well,  if  I  thought  that  were  true,  I  should  be  very 
sorry,"  said  Jacqueline,  no  longer  smiling,  but  looking 
down  fixedly  at  the  pointed  toe  of  her  little  slipper; 
"because — — " 

She  stopped  suddenly.    Her  face  flushed  red. 

"I  don't  know  how  to  explain  to  you,"  she  said. 


TH^O  BENTZON 

"Explain  nothing,"  pleaded  Fred;  "all  I  ask  is  Yes, 
nothing  more.  There  is  nothing  else  I  care  for." 

She  raised  her  head  coldly  and  haughtily,  yet  her 
voice  trembled  as  she  said: 

"You  will  force  me  to  say  it?  Then,  no!  No!" 
she  repeated,  as  if  to  reaffirm  her  refusal. 

Then,  alarmed  by  Fred's  silence,  and  above  all  by 
his  looks,  he  who  had  seemed  so  gay  shortly  before 
and  whose  face  now  showed  an  anguish  such  as  she 
had  never  yet  seen  on  the  face  of  man,  she  added: 

"Oh,  forgive  me! — Forgive  me,"  she  repeated  in  a 
lower  voice,  holding  out  her  hand.  He  did  not  take 
it. 

"You  love  some  one  else?"  he  asked,  through  his 
clenched  teeth. 

She  opened  her  fan  and  affected  to  examine  atten- 
tively the  pink  landscape  painted  on  it  to  match  her 
dress. 

"Why  should  you  think  so?    I  wish  to  be  free." 

"Free?    Are  you  free?    Is  a  woman  ever  free?" 

Jacqueline  shook  her  head,  as  if  expressing  vague 
dissent. 

"Free  at  least  to  see  a  little  of  the  world,"  she  said, 
"to  choose,  to  use  my  wings,  in  short— 

And  she  moved  her  slender  arms  with  an  audacious 
gesture  which  had  nothing  in  common  with  the  flight 
of  that  mystic  dove  upon  which  she  had  meditated 
when  holding  the  card  given  her  by  Giselle. 

"Free  to  prefer  some  other  man,"  said  Fred,  who 
held  fast  to  his  idea  with  the  tenacity  of  jealousy. 

"Ah!  that  is  different.  Supposing  there  were  any 
[180] 


JACQUELINE 

one  whom  I  liked — not  more,  but  differently  from  the 
way  I  like  you — it  is  possible.  But  you  spoke  of 
loving!" 

"Your  distinctions  are  too  subtle,"  said  Fred. 

"Because,  much  as  it  seems  to  astonish  you,  I  am 
quite  capable  of  seeing  the  difference,"  said  Jacque- 
line, with  the  look  and  the  accent  of  a  person  who  has 
had  large  experience.  "I  have  loved  once — a  long 
time  ago,  a  very  long  time  ago,  a  thousand  years  and 
more.  Yes,  I  loved  some  one,  as  perhaps  you  love 
me,  and  I  suffered  more  than  you  will  ever  suffer. 
It  is  ended;  it  is  over — I  think  it  is  over  forever." 

"How  foolish!    At  your  age!" 

"Yes,  that  kind  of  love  is  ended  for  me.  Others 
may  please  me,  others  do  please  me,  as  you  said,  but 
it  is  not  the  same  thing.  Would  you  like  to  see  the 
man  I  once  loved?"  asked  Jacqueline,  impelled  by  a 
juvenile  desire  to  exhibit  her  experience,  and  also 
aware  instinctively  that  to  cast  a  scrap  of  past  history 
to  the  curious  sometimes  turns  off  their  attention  on 
another  track.  "He  is  near  us  now,"  she  added. 

And  while  Fred's  angry  eyes,  under  his  frowning 
brows,  were  wandering  all  round  the  salon,  she 
pointed  to  Hubert  Marien  with  a  movement  of  her 
fan. 

Marien  was  looking  on  at  the  dancing,  with  his  old 
smile,  not  so  brilliant  now  as  it  had  been.  He  now 
only  smiled  at  beauty  collectively,  which  was  well 
represented  that  evening  in  Madame  de  Nailles's  salon. 
Young  girls  en  masse  continued  to  delight  him,  but  his 
admiration  as  an  artist  became  less  and  less  personal. 

[181] 


TH^O  BENTZON 

He  had  grown  stout,  his  hair  and  beard  were  getting 
gray;  he  was  interested  no  longer  in  Savonarola,  hav- 
ing obtained,  thanks  to  his  picture,  the  medal  of  honor, 
and  the  Institute  some  months  since  had  opened  its 
doors  to  him. 

"Marien?    You  are  laughing  at  me!"  cried  Fred. 

"It  is  simply  the  truth." 

Some  magnetic  influence  at  that  moment  caused  the 
painter  to  turn  his  eyes  toward  the  spot  where  they 
were  talking. 

"We  were  speaking  of  you,"  said  Jacqueline. 

And  her  tone  was  so  singular  that  he  dared  not  ask 
what  they  were  saying.  With  humility  which  had  in 
it  a  certain  touch  of  bitterness  he  said,  still  smiling: 

"You  might  find  something  better  to  do  than  to  talk 
good  or  evil  of  a  poor  fellow  who  counts  now  for  noth- 
ing." 

"Counts  for  nothing!  A  fellow  to  be  pitied!"  cried 
Fred,  "a  man  who  has  just  been  elected  to  the  Insti- 
tute— you  are  hard  to  satisfy!" 

Jacqueline  sat  looking  at  him  like  a  young  sorceress 
engaged  in  sticking  pins  into  the  heart  of  a  waxen 
figure  of  her  enemy.  She  never  missed  an  opportunity 
of  showing  her  implacable  dislike  of  him. 

She  turned  to  Fred:  "What  I  was  telling  you,"  she 
said,  "I  am  quite  willing  to  repeat  in  his  presence. 
The  thing  has  lost  its  importance  now  that  he  has 
become  more  indifferent  to  me  than  any  other  man 
in  the  world." 

She  stopped,  hoping  that  Marien  had  understood 
what  she  was  saying  and  that  he  resented  the  humili- 

[182] 


JACQUELINE 

ating  avowal  from  her  own  lips  that  her  childish 
love  was  now  only  a  memory. 

"If  that  is  the  only  confession  you  have  to  make 
to  me,"  said  Fred,  who  had  almost  recovered  his 
composure,  "I  can  put  up  with  my  former  rival,  and 
I  pass  a  sponge  over  all  that  has  happened  in  your 
long  past  of  seventeen  years  and  a  half,  Jacqueline. 
Tell  me  only  that  at  present  you  like  no  one  better 
than  me." 

She  smiled  a  half-smile,  but  he  did  not  see  it.  She 
made  no  answer. 

"Is  he  here,  too — like  the  other!"  he  asked,  sternly. 

And  she  saw  his  restless  eyes  turn  for  an  instant  to 
the  conservatory,  where  Madame  de  Villegry,  leaning 
back  in  her  armchair,  and  Gerard  de  Cymier,  on  a 
low  seat  almost  at  her  feet,  were  carrying  on  their 
pla tonic  flirtation. 

"Oh!  you  must  not  think  of  quarrelling  with  him," 
cried  Jacqueline,  frightened  at  the  look  Fred  fastened 
on  De  Cymier. 

"No,  it  would  be  of  no  use.  I  shall  go  out  to  Ton- 
quin,  that's  all." 

"Fred!    You  are  not  serious." 

"You  will  see  whether  I  am  not  serious.  At  this 
very  moment  I  know  a  man  who  will  be  glad  to  ex- 
change with  me." 

"What!  go  and  get  yourself  killed  at  Tonquin  for 
a  foolish  little  girl  like  me,  who  is  very,  very  fond  of 
you,  but  hardly  knows  her  own  mind.  It  would  be 
absurd!" 

"People  are  not  always  killed  at  Tonquin,  but  I 
[183] 


TH£O  BENTZON 

must  have  new  interests,  something  to  divert  my  mind 

from " 

"Fred!  my  dear  Fred "- -Jacqueline  had  sudden- 
ly become  almost  tender,  almost  suppliant.  "Your 
mother!  Think  of  your  mother!  What  would  she 
say?  Oh,  my  God!" 

"My  mother  must  be  allowed  to  think  that  I  love 
my  profession  better  than  all  else.  But,  Jacqueline," 
continued  the  poor  fellow,  clinging  in  despair  to  the 
very  smallest  hope,  as  a  drowning  man  catches  at  a 
straw,  "if  you  do  not,  as  you  said,  know  exactly  your 
own  mind — if  you  would  like  to  question  your  own 
heart — I  would  wait- 
Jacqueline  was  biting  the  end  of  her  fan — a  conflict 
was  taking  place  within  her  breast.  But  to  certain 
temperaments  there  is  pleasure  in  breaking  a  chain 
or  in  leaping  a  barrier;  she  said: 

"Fred,  I  am  too  much  your  friend  to  deceive  you." 
At  that  moment  M.  de  Cymier  came  toward  them 
with  his  air  of  assurance:    "Mademoiselle,  you  forget 
that  you  promised  me  this  waltz,"  he  said. 

"No,  I  never  forget  anything,"  she  answered, 
rising. 

Fred  detained  her  an  instant,  saying,  in  a  low  voice : 

"Forgive  me.    This  moment,  Jacqueline,  is  decisive. 

I  must  have  an  answer.     I  never  shall  speak  to  you 

again  of  my  sorrow.     But  decide  now — on  the  spot. 

Is  all  ended  between  us?" 

"Not  our  old  friendship,  Fred,"  said  Jacqueline, 
tears  rising  in  her  eyes. 

"So  be  it,  then,  if  you  so  will  it.    But  our  friendship 
[184] 


JACQUELINE 

never  will  show  itself  unless  you  are  in  need  of  friend- 
ship, and  then  only  with  the  discretion  that  your  pres- 
ent attitude  toward  me  has  imposed." 

"Are  you  ready,  Mademoiselle,"  said  Gerard,  who, 
to  allow  them  to  end  their  conversation,  had  obligingly 
turned  his  attention  to  some  madrigals  that  Colette 
Odinska  was  laughing  over. 

Jacqueline  shook  her  head  resolutely,  though  at  that 
moment  her  heart  felt  as  if  it  were  in  a  vise,  and  the 
moisture  in  her  eyes  looked  like  anything  but  a  refusal. 
Then,  without  giving  herself  time  for  further  thought, 
she  whirled  away  into  the  dance  with  M.  de  Cymier. 
It  was  over,  she  had  flung  to  the  winds  her  chance  for 
happiness,  and  wounded  a  heart  more  cruelly  than 
Hubert  Marien  had  ever  wounded  hers.  The  most 
horrible  thing  in  this  unending  warfare  we  call  love  is 
that  we  too  often  repay  to  those  who  love  us  the  harm 
that  has  been  done  us  by  those  whom  we  have  loved. 
The  seeds  of  mistrust  and  perversity  sown  by  one  man 
or  by  one  woman  bear  fruit  to  be  gathered  by  some  one 
else. 


[185] 


CHAPTER  XII 

A  COMEDY  AND  A  TRAGEDY 

[E  departure  of  Frederic  d'Argy  for 
Tonquin  occasioned  a  break  in  the 
intercourse  between  his  mother  and 
the  family  of  De  Nailles.  The  wails 
of  Hecuba  were  nothing  to  the  lam- 
entations of  poor  Madame  d'Argy; 
the  unreasonableness  of  her  wrath 
and  the  exaggeration  in  her  re- 
proaches hindered  even  Jacqueline  from  feeling  all 
the  remorse  she  might  otherwise  have  felt  for  her 
share  in  Fred's  departure.  She  told  her  father,  who 
the  first  time  in  her  life  addressed  her  with  some 
severity,  that  she  could  not  be  expected  to  love  all  the 
young  men  who  might  threaten  to  go  to  the  wars,  or 
to  fling  themselves  from  fourth-story  windows,  for  her 
sake. 

"It  was  very  indelicate  and  inconsiderate  of  Fred 
to  tell  any  one  that  it  was  my  fault  that  he  was  doing 
anything  so  foolish,"  she  said,  with  true  feminine  de- 
ceit, "but  he  has  taken  the  very  worst  possible  means 
to  make  me  care  for  him.  Everybody  has  too  much 
to  say  about  this  matter  which  concerns  only  him  and 
me.  Even  Giselle  thought  proper  to  write  me  a  ser- 
mon!" 

[186] 


JACQUELINE 

And  she  gave  vent  to  her  feelings  in  an  exclamation 
of  three  syllables  that  she  had  learned  from  the  Odin- 
skas,  which  meant:  "I  don't  care!"  (je  rrfen  moque}. 

But  this  was  not  true.  She  cared  very  much  for 
Giselle's  good  opinion,  and  for  Madame  d'Argy's 
friendship.  She  suffered  much  in  her  secret  heart  at 
the  thought  of  having  given  so  much  pain  to  Fred. 
She  guessed  how  deep  it  was  by  the  step  to  which  it 
had  driven  him.  But  there  was  in  her  secret  soul 
something  more  than  all  the  rest,  it  was  a  puerile,  but 
delicious  satisfaction  in  feeling  her  own  importance, 
in  having  been  able  to  exercise  an  influence  over  one 
heart  which  might  possibly  extend  to  that  of  M.  de 
Cymier.  She  thought  he  might  be  gratified  by  know- 
ing that  she  had  driven  a  young  man  to  despair,  if  he 
guessed  for  whose  sake  she  had  been  so  cruel.  He 
knew  it,  of  course.  Madame  de  Nailles  took  care 
that  he  should  not  be  ignorant  of  it,  and  the  pleasure 
he  took  in  such  a  proof  of  his  power  over  a  young  heart 
was  not  unlike  that  pleasure  Jacqueline  experienced  in 
her  coquetry — which  crushed  her  better  feelings.  He 
felt  proud  of  the  sacrifice  this  beautiful  girl  had  made 
for  his  sake,  though  he  did  not  consider  himself  thereby 
committed  to  any  decision,  only  he  felt  more  attached 
to  her  than  ever.  Ever  since  the  day  when  Madame 
de  Villegry  had  first  introduced  him  at  the  house  of 
Madame  de  Nailles,  he  had  had  great  pleasure  in 
going  there.  The  daughter  of  the  house  was  more  and 
more  to  his  taste,  but  his  liking  for  her  was  not  such 
as  to  carry  him  beyond  prudence.  "If  I  chose,"  he 
would  say  to  himself  after  every  time  he  met  her,  "if 

' 


THfiO  BENTZON 

I  chose  I  could  own  that  jewel.  I  have  only  to  stretch 
out  my  hand  and  have  it  given  me."  And  the  next 
morning,  after  going  to  sleep  full  of  that  pleasant 
thought,  he  would  awake  glad  to  find  that  he  was  still 
as  free  as  ever,  and  able  to  carry  on  a  flirtation  with  a 
woman  of  the  world,  which  imposed  no  obligations 
upon  him,  and  yet  at  the  same  time  make  love  to  a 
young  girl  whom  he  would  gladly  have  married  but 
for  certain  reports  which  were  beginning  to  circulate 
among  men  of  business  concerning  the  financial  posi- 
tion of  M.  de  Nailles. 

They  said  that  he  was  withdrawing  money  from 
secure  investments  to  repair  (or  to  increase)  considera- 
ble losses  made  by  speculation,  and  that  he  operated 
recklessly  on  the  Bourse.  These  rumors  had  already 
withdrawn  Marcel  d'Etaples  from  the  list  of  his  daugh- 
ter's suitors.  The  young  fellow  was  a  captain  of 
Hussars,  who  had  no  scruple  in  declaring  the  reason 
of  his  giving  up  his  interest  in  the  young  lady.  Gerard 
de  Cymier,  more  prudent,  waited  and  watched,  think- 
ing it  would  be  quite  time  enough  to  go  to  the  bottom 
of  things  when  he  found  himself  called  upon  to  make 
a  decision,  and  greatly  interested  meantime  in  the 
daily  increase  of  Jacqueline's  beauty.  It  was  evident 
she  cared  for  him.  After  all,  it  was  doing  the  little 
thing  no  harm  to  let  her  live  on  in  the  intoxication  of 
vanity  and  hope,  and  to  give  her  something  to  dwell 
upon  in  her  innocent  dreams.  Never  did  Gerard 
allow  himself  to  overstep  the  line  he  had  marked  out 
for  himself;  a  glance,  a  slight  pressure  of  the  hand, 
which  might  have  been  intentional,  or  have  meant 

[188] 


JACQUELINE 

nothing,  a  few  ambiguous  words  in  which  an  active 
imagination  might  find  something  to  dream  about,  a 
certain  way  of  passing  his  arm  round  her  slight  waist 
which  would  have  meant  much  had  it  not  been  done  in 
public  to  the  sound  of  music,  were  all  the  proofs  the 
young  diplomatist  had  ever  given  of  an  attraction  that 
was  real  so  far  as  consisted  with  his  complete  selfish- 
ness, joined  to  his  professional  prudence,  and  that 
systematic  habit  of  taking  up  fancies  at  any  time  for 
anything,  which  prevents  each  fancy  as  it  occurs  from 
ripening  into  passion. 

He  alluded  indirectly  to  Fred's  departure  in  a  way 
that  turned  it  into  ridicule.  While  playing  a  game  of 
boston  he  whispered  into  Jacqueline's  ear  something 
about  the  old-fashionedness  and  stupidity  of  Paul  and 
Virginia,  and  his  opinion  of  "calf-love,"  as  the  Eng- 
lish call  an  early  attachment,  and  something  about  the 
right  of  every  girl  to  know  a  suitor  long  before  she  con- 
sents to  marry  him.  He  said  he  thought  that  the  days 
of  courtship  must  be  the  most  delightful  in  the  life  of 
a  woman,  and  that  a  man  who  wished  to  cut  them 
short  was  a  fellow  without  delicacy  or  discretion! 

From  this  Jacqueline  drew  the  conclusion  that  he 
was  not  willing  to  resemble  such  a  fellow,  and  was 
more  and  more  persuaded  that  there  was  tenderness 
in  the  way  he  pressed  her  waist,  and  that  his  voice  had 
the  softness  of  a  caress  when  he  spoke  to  her.  He 
made  many  inquiries  as  to  what  she  liked  and  what 
she  wished  for  in  the  future,  as  if  his  great  object  in 
all  things  was  to  anticipate  her  wishes.  As  for  his 
intimacy  with  Madame  de  Villegry,  Jacqueline  thought 


THfiO  BENTZON 

nothing  of  it,  notwithstanding  her  habitual  mistrust  of 
those  she  called  old  women.  •  In  the  first  place,  Ma- 
dame de  Villegry  was  her  own  mistress,  nothing  hin- 
dered them  from  having  been  married  long  ago  had 
they  wished  it;  besides,  had  not  Madame  de  Villegry 
brought  the  young  man  to  their  house  and  let  every 
one  see,  even  Jacqueline  herself,  what  was  her  object 
in  doing  so  ?  In  this  matter  she  was  their  ally,  a  most 
zealous  and  kind  ally,  for  she  was  continually  advising 
her  young  friend  as  to  what  was  most  becoming  to  her 
and  how  she  might  make  herself  most  attractive  to  men 
in  general,  with  little  covert  allusions  to  the  particular 
tastes  of  Gerard,  which  she  said  she  knew  as  well  as 
if  he  had  been  her  brother. 

All  this  was  lightly  insinuated,  but  never  insisted 
upon,  with  the  tact  which  stood  Madame  de  Villegry 
in  stead  of  talent,  and  which  had  enabled  her  to  per- 
form some  marvellous  feats  upon  the  tight-rope  with- 
out losing  her  balance  completely.  She,  too,  made  fun 
of  the  tragic  determination  of  Fred,  which  all  those 
who  composed  the  society  of  the  De  Nailles  had  been 
made  aware  of  by  the  indiscreet  lamentations  of  Ma- 
dame d'Argy. 

"  Is  not  Jacqueline  fortunate  ?  "  cried  Colette  Odinska, 
who,  herself  always  on  a  high  horse,  looked  on  love  in 
its  tragic  aspect,  and  would  have  liked  to  resemble 
Marie  Stuart  as  much  as  she  could,  "is  she  not  for- 
tunate ?  She  has  had  a  man  who  has  gone  abroad  to 
get  himself  killed — and  all  for  her!" 

Colette  imagined  herself  under  the  same  circum- 
stances, making  the  most  of  a  slain  lover,  with  a  crape 

[190] 


JACQUELINE 

veil  covering  her  fair  hair,  her  mourning  copied  from 
that  of  her  divorced  sister,  who  wore  her  weeds  so 
charmingly,  but  who  was  getting  rather  tired  of  a 
single  life. 

As  for  Miss  Kate  Sparks  and  Miss  Nora,  they  could 
not  understand  why  the  breaking  of  half-a-dozen  hearts 
should  not  be  the  prelude  to  every  marriage.  That, 
they  said  with  much  conviction,  was  always  the  case  in 
America,  and  a  girl  was  thought  all  the  more  of  who 
had  done  so. 

Jacqueline,  however,  thought  more  than  was  reason- 
able about  the  dangers  that  the  friend  of  her  childhood 
was  going  to  encounter  through  her  fault.  Fred's 
departure  would  have  lent  him  a  certain  prestige,  had 
not  a  powerful  new  interest  stepped  in  to  divert  her 
thoughts.  Madame  d'Avrigny  was  getting  up  her 
annual  private  theatricals,  and  wanted  Jacqueline  to 
take  the  principal  part  in  the  play,  saying  that  she 
ought  to  put  her  lessons  in  elocution  to  some  use. 
The  piece  chosen  was  to  illustrate  a  proverb,  and  was 
entirely  new.  It  was  as  unexceptionable  as  it  was 
amusing;  the  most  severe  critic  could  have  found  no 
fault  with  its  morality  or  with  its  moral,  which  turned 
on  the  eagerness  displayed  by  young  girls  nowadays 
to  obtain  diplomas.  Scylla  and  Charybdis  was  its 
name.  Its  story  was  that  of  a  young  bride,  who, 
thinking  to  please  a  husband,  a  stupid  and  ignorant 
man,  was  trying  to  obtain  in  secret  a  high  place  in  the 
examination  at  the  Sorbonne — un  brevet  superieur. 
The  husband,  disquieted  by  the  mystery,  is  at  first 
suspicious,  then  jealous,  and  then  is  overwhelmed 

[191] 


THEO  BENTZON 

with  humiliation  when  he  discovers  that  his  wife  knows 
more  of  everything  than  himself.  He  ends  by  implor- 
ing her  to  give  up  her  higher  education  if  she  wishes 
to  please  him.  The  little  play  had  all  the  modern 
loveliness  and  grace  which  Octave  Feuillet  alone  can 
give,  and  it  contained  a  lesson  from  which  any  one 
might  profit;  which  was  by  no  means  always  the  case 
with  Madame  d'Avrigny's  plays,  which  too  often  were 
full  of  risky  allusions,  of  critical  situations,  and  the 
like;  likely,  in  short,  to  "sail  too  close  to  the  wind," 
as  Fred  had  once  described  them.  But  Madame 
d'Avrigny's  prime  object  was  the  amusement  of  society, 
and  society  finds  pleasure  in  things  which,  if  innocence 
understood  them,  would  put  her  to  the  blush.  This 
play,  however,  was  an  exception.  There  had  been 
very  little  to  cut  out  this  time.  Madame  de  Nailles 
had  been  asked  to  take  the  mother's  part,  but  she 
declined,  not  caring  to  act  such  a  character  in  a  house 
where  years  before  in  all  her  glory  she  had  made  a 
sensation  as  a  young  coquette.  So  Madame  d'Avrigny 
had  to  take  the  part  herself,  not  sorry  to  be  able  to 
superintend  everything  on  the  stage,  and  to  prompt 
Dolly,  if  necessary — Dolly,  who  had  but  four  words  to 
say,  which  she  always  forgot,  but  who  looked  lovely 
in  a  little  cap  as  a  femme  de  chambre. 

People  had  been  surprised  that  M.  de  Cymier  should 
have  asked  for  the  part  of  the  husband,  a  local  magis- 
trate, stiff  and  self-important,  whom  everybody  laughed 
at.  Jacqueline  alone  knew  wrhy  he  had  chosen  it:  it 
would  give  him  the  opportunity  of  giving  her  two 
kisses.  Of  course  those  kisses  were  to  be  reserved  for 

[192] 


JACQUELINE 

the  representation,  but  whether  intentionally  or  other- 
wise, the  young  husband  ventured  upon  them  at  every 
rehearsal,  in  spite  of  the  general  outcry — not,  however, 
very  much  in  earnest,  for  it  is  well  understood  that  in 
private  theatricals  certain  liberties  may  be  allowed, 
and  M.  de  Cymier  had  never  been  remarkable  for 
reserve  when  he  acted  at  the  clubs,  where  the  female 
parts  were  taken  by  ladies  from  the  smaller  theatres. 
In  this  school  he  had  acquired  some  reputation  as  an 
amateur  actor.  "Besides,"  as  he  remarked  on  making 
his  apology,  "we  shall  do  it  very  awkwardly  upon  the 
stage  if  we  are  not  allowed  to  practise  it  beforehand." 
Jacqueline  burst  out  laughing,  and  did  not  make  much 
show  of  opposition.  To  play  the  part  of  his  wife,  to 
hear  him  say  tu  to  her,  to  respond  with  the  affectionate 
and  familiar  toi,  was  so  amusing!  It  was  droll  to  see 
her  cut  out  her  husband  in  chemistry,  history,  and 
grammar,  and  make  him  confound  La  Fontaine  with 
Corneille.  She  had  such  a  little  air  while  doing  it! 
And  at  the  close,  when  he  said  to  her:  "If  I  give  you 
a  pony  to-morrow,  and  a  good  hearty  kiss  this  very 
minute,  shall  you  be  willing  to  give  up  getting  that 
degree?"  she  responded,  with  such  gusto:  "Indeed,  I 
shall!"  and  her  manner  was  so  eager,  so  boyish,  so 
full  of  fun,  that  she  was  wildly  applauded,  while 
Gerard  embraced  her  as  heartily  as  he  liked,  to  make 
up  to  himself  for  her  having  had,  as  his  wife,  the  upper 
hand. 

All  this  kissing  threw  him  rather  off  his  balance, 
and  he  might  soon  have  sealed  his  fate,  had  not  a  very 
sad  event  occurred,  which  restored  his  self-possession. 
13  [ J93  ] 


BENTZON 

The  dress  rehearsal  was  to  take  place  one  bright 
spring  day  at  about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 
A  large  number  of  guests  was  assembled  at  the  house 
of  Madame  d'Avrigny.  The  performance  had  been 
much  talked  about  beforehand  in  society.  The  beauty, 
the  singing,  and  the  histrionic  powers  of  the  principal 
actress  had  been  everywhere  extolled.  Fully  conscious 
of  what  was  expected  of  her,  and  eager  to  do  herself 
credit  in  every  way,  Jacqueline  took  advantage  of 
Madame  Strahlberg's  presence  to  run  over  a  little 
song,  which  she  was  to  sing  between  the  acts  and 
in  which  she  could  see  no  meaning  whatever.  This 
little  song,  which,  to  most  of  the  ladies  present,  seemed 
simply  idiotic,  made  the  men  in  the  audience  cry 
"Oh!"  as  if  half-shocked,  and  then  "Encore!  Encore!" 
in  a  sort  of  frenzy.  It  was  a  so-called  pastoral  effu- 
sion, in  which  Colinette  rhymed  with  herbette,  and  in 
which  the  false  innocence  of  the  eighteenth  century 
was  a  cloak  for  much  indelicate  allusion. 

"I  never,"  said  Jacqueline  in  self-defense,  before 
she  began  the  song,  "sang  anything  so  stupid.  And 
that  is  saying  much  when  one  thinks  of  all  the  non- 
sensical words  that  people  set  to  music !  It's  a  marvel 
how  any  one  can  like  this  stuff.  Do  tell  me  what  there 
is  in  it?"  she  added,  turning  to  Gerard,  who  was 
charmed  by  her  ignorance. 

Standing  beside  the  grand  piano,  with  her  arms 
waving  as  she  sang,  repeating,  by  the  expression  of 
her  eyes,  the  question  she  had  asked  and  to  which  she 
had  received  no  answer,  she  was  singing  the  verses 
she  considered  nonsense  with  as  much  point  as  if  she 


JACQUELINE 

had  understood  them,  thanks  to  the  hints  given  her 
by  Madame  Strahlberg,  who  was  playing  her  ac- 
companiment, when  the  entrance  of  a  servant,  who 
pronounced  her  name  aloud,  made  a  sudden  interrup- 
tion. "Mademoiselle  de  Nailles  is  wanted  at  home 
at  once.  Modeste  has  come  for  her." 

Madame  d'Avrigny  went  out  to  say  to  the  old  ser- 
vant: "She  can  not  possibly  go  home  with  you!  It  is 
only  half  an  hour  since  she  came.  The  rehearsal  is 
just  beginning." 

But  something  Modeste  said  in  answer  made  her 
give  a  little  cry,  full  of  consternation.  She  came 
quickly  back,  and  going  up  to  Jacqueline : 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  "you  must  go  home  at  once— 
there  is  bad  news,  your  father  is  ill." 

"111?" 

The  solemnity  of  Madame  d'Avrigny's  voice,  the 
pity  in  her  expression,  the  affection  with  which  she 
spoke  and  above  all  her  total  indifference  to  the  fate 
of  her  rehearsal,  frightened  Jacqueline.  She  rushed 
away,  not  waiting  to  say  good-by,  leaving  behind  her 
a  general  murmur  of  "Poor  thing!"  while  Madame 
d'Avrigny,  recovering  from  her  first  shock,  was  already 
beginning  to  wonder— her  instincts  as  an  impresario 
coming  once  more  to  the  front — whether  the  leading 
part  might  not  be  taken  by  Isabelle  Ray.  She  would 
have  to  send  out  two  hundred  cards,  at  least,  and  put 
off  her  play  for  another  fortnight.  What  a  pity!  It 
seemed  as  if  misfortunes  always  happened  just  so  as 
to  interfere  with  pleasures. 

The  fiacre  which  had  brought  Modeste  was  at 
[i95] 


BENTZON 

the  door.     The  old  nurse  helped   her   young   lady 
into  it. 

"What  has  happened  to  papa?"  cried  Jacqueline, 
impetuously. 

There  was  something  horrible  in  this  sudden  transi- 
tion from  gay  excitement  to  the  sharpest  anxiety. 

"Nothing — that  is  to  say— he  is  very  sick.  Don't 
tremble  like  that,  my  darling — courage!"  stammered 
Modeste,  who  was  frightened  by  her  agitation. 

"He  was  taken  sick,  you  say.  Where?  How  hap- 
pened it?" 

"In  his  study.  Pierre  had  just  brought  him  his 
letters.  We  thought  we  heard  a  noise  as  if  a  chair 
had  been  thrown  down,  and  a  sort  of  cry.  I  ran  in 
to  see.  He  was  lying  at  full  length  on  the  floor." 

"And  now?    How  is  he  now?" 

"We  did  what  we  could  for  him.  Madame  came 
back.  He  is  lying  on  his  bed." 

Modeste  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"You  have  not  told  me  all.    What  else?" 

"Mon  Dieu!  you  knew  your  poor  father  had  heart 
disease.  The  last  time  the  doctor  saw  him  he  thought 
his  legs  had  swelled " 

"Had!"  Jacqueline  heard  only  that  one  word.  It 
meant  that  the  life  of  her  father  was  a  thing  of  the  past. 
Hardly  waiting  till  the  fiacre  could  be  stopped,  she 
sprang  out,  rushed  into  the  house,  opened  the  door  of 
her  father's  chamber,  pushing  aside  a  servant  who 
tried  to  stop  her,  and  fell  upon  her  knees  beside  the 
bed  where  lay  the  body  of  her  father,  white  and  rigid. 

"Papa!    My  poor  dear — dear  papa!" 
[196] 


JACQUELINE 

The  hand  she  pressed  to  her  lips  was  as  cold  as  ice. 
She  raised  her  frightened  eyes  to  the  face  over  which 
the  great  change  from  life  to  death  had  passed.  "  What 
does  it  mean?"  Jacqueline  had  never  looked  on 
death  before,  but  she  knew  this  was  not  sleep. 

"Oh,  speak  to  me,  papa!    It  is  I — it  is  Jacqueline!" 

Her  stepmother  tried  to  raise  her — tried  to  fold  her 
in  her  arms. 

"Let  me  alone!"  she  cried  with  horror. 

It  seemed  to  her  as  if  her  father,  where  he  was  now, 
so  far  from  her,  so  far  from  everything,  might  have 
the  power  to  look  into  human  hearts,  and  know  the 
perfidy  he  had  known  nothing  of  when  he  was  living. 
He  might  see  in  her  own  heart,  too,  her  great  despair. 
All  else  seemed  small  and  of  no  consequence  when 
death  was  present. 

Oh!  why  had  she  not  been  a  better  daughter,  more 
loving,  more  devoted?  why  had  she  ever  cared  for 
anything  but  to  make  him  happy? 

She  sobbed  aloud,  while  Madame  de  Nailles,  press- 
ing her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  stood  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed,  and  the  doctor,  too,  was  near,  whispering  to 
some  one  whom  Jacqueline  at  first  had  not  perceived 
—the  friend  of  the  family,  Hubert  Marien. 

Marien  there  ?  Was  it  not  natural  that,  so  intimate 
as  he  had  always  been  with  the  dead  man,  he  should 
have  hastened  to  offer  his  services  to  the  widow  ? 

Jacqueline  flung  herself  upon  her  father's  corpse,  as 
if  to  protect  it  from  profanation.  She  had  an  impulse 
to  bear  it  away  with  her  to  some  desert  spot  where  she 
alone  could  have  wept  over  it. 


BENTZON 

She  lay  thus  a  long  time,  beside  herself  with  grief. 

The  flowers  which  covered  the  bed  and  lay  scattered 
on  the  floor,  gave  a  festal  appearance  to  the  death- 
chamber.  They  had  been  purchased  for  a  fdte,  but 
circumstances  had  changed  their  destination.  That 
evening  there  was  to  have  been  a  reception  in  the  house 
of  M.  de  Nailles,  but  the  unexpected  guest  that  comes 
without  an  invitation  had  arrived  before  the  music 
and  the  dancers. 


[198] 


CHAPTER  XIII 


THE   STORM   BREAKS 

fONSIEUR  DE  NAILLES  was  dead, 
struck  down  suddenly  by  what  is 
called  indefinitely  heart-failure.  The 
trouble  in  that  organ  from  which 
he  had  long  suffered  had  brought 
on  what  might  have  been  long 
foreseen,  and  yet  every  one  seemed 
stupefied  by  the  event.  It  came  upon 
them  like  a  thunderbolt.  It  often  happens  so  when 
people  who  are  really  ill  persist  in  doing  all  that  may  be 
done  with  safety  by  other  persons.  They  persuaded 
themselves,  and  those  about  them  are  easily  persuaded, 
that  small  remedies  will  prolong  indefinitely  a  state  of 
things  which  is  precarious  to  the  last  degree.  Friends 
are  ready  to  believe,  when  the  sufferer  complains  that 
his  work  is  too  hard  for  him,  that  he  thinks  too  much 
of  his  ailments  and  that  he  exaggerates  trifles  to  which 
they  are  well  accustomed,  but  which  are  best  known  to 
him  alone.  When  M.  de  Nailles,  several  weeks  before 
his  death,  had  asked  to  be  excused  and  to  stay  at  home 
instead  of  attending  some  large  gathering,  his  wife,  and 
even  Jacqueline,  would  try  to  convince  him  that  a  little 
amusement  would  be  good  for  him;  they  were  unwil- 
ling to  leave  him  to  the  repose  he  needed,  prescribed 


THfiO  BENTZON 

for  him  by  the  doctors,  who  had  been  unanimous  that 
he  must  "put  down  the  brakes,"  give  less  attention 
to  business,  avoid  late  hours  and  over-exertion  of  all 
kinds.  "And,  above  all,"  said  one  of  the  lights  of 
science  whom  he  had  consulted  recently  about  cer- 
tain feelings  of  faintness  which  were  a  bad  symptom, 
"above  all,  you  must  keep  yourself  from  mental 
anxiety." 

How  could  he,  when  his  fortune,  already  much  im- 
paired, hung  on  chances  as  uncertain  as  those  in  a 
game  of  roulette?  What  nonsense!  The  failure  of  a 
great  financial  company  had  brought  about  a  crisis  on 
the  Bourse.  The  news  of  the  inability  of  Wermant,  the 
agent  de  change,  to  meet  his  engagements,  had  com- 
pleted the  downfall  of  M.  de  Nailles.  Not  only  death, 
but  ruin,  had  entered  that  house,  where,  a  few  hours 
before,  luxury  and  opulence  had  seemed  to  reign. 

"We  don't  know  whether  there  will  be  anything  left 
for  us  to  live  upon,"  cried  Madame  de  Nailles,  with  an- 
guish, even  while  her  husband's  body  lay  in  the  cham- 
ber of  death,  and  Jacqueline,  kneeling  beside  it,  wept, 
unwilling  to  receive  comfort  or  consolation. 

She  turned  angrily  upon  her  stepmother  and  cried : 

"What  matter?  I  have  no  father — there  is  nothing 
else  I  care  for." 

But  from  that  moment  a  dreadful  thought,  a  thought 
she  was  ashamed  of,  which  made  her  feel  a  monster  of 
selfishness,  rose  in  her  mind,  do  what  she  would  to  hin- 
der it.  Jacqueline  was  sensible  that  she  cared  for 
something  else;  great  as  was  her  sense  of  loss,  a  sort  of 
reckless  curiosity  seemed  haunting  her,  while  all  the 


JACQUELINE 

time  she  felt  that  her  great  grief  ought  not  to  give  place 
to  anything  besides.  "How  would  Gerard  de  Cymier 
behave  in  these  circumstances?"  She  thought  about  it 
all  one  dreadful  night  as  she  and  Modeste,  who  was 
telling  her  beads  softly,  sat  in  the  faint  light  of  the 
death-chamber.  She  thought  of  it  at  dawn,  when,  after 
one  of  those  brief  sleeps  which  come  to  the  young  under 
all  conditions,  she  resumed  with  a  sigh  a  sense  of  sur- 
rounding realities.  Almost  in  the  same  instant  she 
thought:  "My  dear  father  will  never  wake  again,"  and 
"Does  he  love  me? — does  he  now  wish  me  to  be  his 
wife? — will  he  take  me  away?"  The  devil,  which  put 
this  thought  into  her  heart,  made  her  eager  to  know  the 
answer  to  these  questions.  He  suggested  how  dreadful 
life  with  her  stepmother  would  be  if  no  means  of  escape 
were  offered  her.  He  made  her  foresee  that  her  step- 
mother would  marry  again — would  marry  Marien. 
"But  I  shall  not  be  there!"  she  cried,  "I  will  not  coun- 
tenance such  an  infamy!"  Oh,  how  she  hoped  Gerard 
de  Cymier  loved  her!  The  hypocritical  tears  of  Ma- 
dame de  Nailles  disgusted  her.  She  could  not  bear  to 
have  such  false  grief  associated  with  her  own. 

Men  in  black,  with  solemn  faces,  came  and  bore 
away  the  body,  no  longer  like  the  form  of  the  father  she 
had  loved.  He  had  gone  from  her  forever.  Pompous 
funeral  rites,  little  in  accordance  with  the  crash  that 
soon  succeeded  them,  were  superintended  by  Marien, 
who,  in  the  absence  of  near  relatives,  took  charge  of 
everything.  He  seemed  to  be  deeply  affected,  and  be- 
haved with  all  possible  kindness  and  consideration  to 
Jacqueline,  who  could  not,  however,  bring  herself  to 

[201] 


THfiO  BENTZON 

thank  him,  or  even  to  look  at  him.  She  hated  him  with 
an  increase  of  resentment,  as  if  the  soul  of  her  dead 
father,  who  now  knew  the  truth,  had  passed  into  her 
own. 

Meantime,  M.  de  Cymier  took  care  to  inform  him- 
self of  the  state  of  things.  It  was  easy  enough  to  do  so. 
All  Paris  was  talking  of  the  shipwreck  in  which  life  and 
fortune  had  been  lost  by  a  man  whose  kindliness  as 
a  host  at  his  wife's  parties  every  one  had  appreciated. 
That  was  what  came,  people  said,  of  striving  after  big 
dividends!  The  house  was  to  be  sold,  with  the  horses, 
the  pictures,  and  the  furniture.  What  a  change  for  his 
poor  wife  and  daughter!  There  were  others  who  suf- 
fered by  the  Wermant  crash,  but  those  were  less  inter- 
esting than  the  De  Nailles.  M.  de  Belvan  found  himself 
left  by  his  father-in-law's  failure  with  a  wife  on  his 
hands  who  not  only  had  not  a  sou,  but  who  was  the 
daughter  of  an  agent  de  change  who  had  behaved 
dishonorably. 

This  was  a  text  for  dissertations  on  the  disgrace  of 
marrying  for  money;  those  who  had  done  the  same 
thing,  minus  the  same  consequences,  being  loudest  in 
reprobating  alliances  of  that  kind.  M.  de  Cymier  lis- 
tened attentively  to  such  talk,  looking  and  saying  the 
right  things,  and  as  he  heard  more  and  more  about  the 
deplorable  condition  of  M.  de  Nailles' s  affairs,  he  con- 
gratulated himself  that  a  prudent  presentiment  had 
kept  him  from  asking  the  hand  of  Jacqueline.  He  had 
had  vague  doubts  as  to  the  firm  foundation  of  the  opu- 
lence which  made  so  charming  a  frame  for  her  young 
beauty ;  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  she  were  now  less  beauti- 

[  202  ] 


JACQUELINE 

ful  than  he  had  imagined  her;  the  enchantment  she 
had  exercised  upon  him  was  thrown  off  by  simple  con- 
siderations of  good  sense.  And  yet  he  gave  a  long  sigh 
of  regret  when  he  thought  she  was  unattainable  except 
by  marriage.  He,  however,  thanked  heaven  that  he  had 
not  gone  far  enough  to  have  compromised  himself  with 
her.  The  most  his  conscience  could  reproach  him  with 
was  an  occasional  imprudence  in  moments  of  forget- 
fulness;  no  court  of  honor  could  hold  him  bound  to 
declare  himself  her  suitor.  The  evening  that  he  made 
up  his  mind  to  this  he  wrote  two  letters,  very  nearly 
alike;  one  was  to  Madame  d'Avrigny,  the  other  to  Ma- 
dame de  Nailles,  announcing  that,  having  received 
orders  to  join  the  Embassy  to  which  he  was  attached 
at  Vienna,  he  was  about  to  depart  at  once,  with  great 
regret  that  he  should  not  be  able  to  take  leave  of  any 
one.  To  Madame  d'Avrigny  he  made  apologies  for 
having  to  give  up  his  part  in  her  theatricals;  he  en- 
treated Madame  de  Nailles  to  accept  both  for  herself 
and  for  Mademoiselle  Jacqueline  his  deepest  condo- 
lences and  the  assurance  of  his  sympathy.  The  man- 
ner in  which  this  was  said  was  all  it  ought  to  have  been, 
except  that  it  might  have  been  rather  more  brief.  M. 
de  Cymier  said  more  than  was  necessary  about  his  par- 
ticipation in  their  grief,  because  he  was  conscious  of 
a  total  lack  of  sympathy.  He  begged  the  ladies  would 
forgive  him  if,  from  feelings  of  delicacy  and  a  sense  of 
the  respect  due  to  a  great  sorrow,  he  did  not,  before 
leaving  Paris,  which  he  was  about  do  to  probably  for  a 
long  time,  personally  present  to  them  ses  hommages 
attristes.  Then  followed  a  few  lines  in  which  he  spoke 

[203] 


TH^O  BENTZON 

of  the  pleasant  recollections  he  should  always  retain  of 
the  hospitality  he  had  enjoyed  under  M.  de  Nailles's 
roof,  in  a  way  that  gave  them  clearly  to  understand 
that  he  had  no  expectation  of  ever  entering  their  family 
on  a  more  intimate  footing. 

Madame  de  Nailles  received  this  letter  just  as  she 
had  had  a  conversation  with  a  man  of  business,  who 
had  shown  her  how  complete  was  the  ruin  for  which  in 
a  great  measure  she  herself  was  responsible.  She  had 
no  longer  any  illusions  as  to  her  position.  When  the 
estate  had  been  settled  there  would  be  nothing  left  but 
poverty,  not  only  for  herself,  who,  having  brought  her 
husband  no  dot,  had  no  right  to  consider  herself  wronged 
by  the  bankruptcy,  but  for  Jacqueline,  whose  fortune, 
derived  from  her  mother,  had  suffered  under  her  fa- 
ther's management  (there  are  such  men  —  unfaithful 
guardians  of  a  child's  property,  but  yet  good  fathers) 
in  every  way  in  which  it  was  possible  to  evade  the  pro- 
visions of  the  Code  intended  to  protect  the  rights  of 
minor  children.  In  the  little  salon  so  charmingly  fur- 
nished, where  never  before  had  sorrow  or  sadness  been 
discussed,  Madame  de  Nailles  poured  out  her  com- 
plaints to  her  stepdaughter  and  insisted  upon  plans  of 
strict  economy,  when  M.  de  Cymier's  letter  was  brought 
in. 

"Read!"  said  the  Baroness,  handing  the  strange 
document  to  Jacqueline,  after  she  had  read  it 
through. 

Then  she  leaned  back  in  her  chair  wren  a  gesture 
which  signified:  "This  is  the  last  straw!"  and  re- 
mained motionless,  apparently  overwhelmed,  with  her 

[204] 


JACQUELINE 

face  covered  by  one  hand,  but  furtively  watching  the 
face  of  the  girl  so  cruelly  forsaken. 

That  face  told  nothing,  for  pride  supplies  some  suf- 
ferers with  necessary  courage.  Jacqueline  sat  for  some 
time  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  decisive  adieu  which 
swept  away  what  might  have  been  her  secret  hcpc. 
The  paper  did  not  tremble  in  her  hand,  a  half -smile  of 
contempt  passed  over  her  mouth.  The  answer  to  the 
restless  question  that  had  intruded  itself  upon  her  in 
the  first  moments  of  her  grief  was  now  before  her.  Its 
promptness,  its  polished  brutality,  had  given  her  a 
shock,  but  not  the  pain  she  had  expected.  Perhaps  her 
great  grief — the  real,  the  true,  the  grief  death  brings — 
recovered  its  place  in  her  heart,  and  prevented  her 
from  feeling  keenly  any  secondary  emotion.  Perhaps 
this  man,  who  could  pay  court  to  her  in  her  days  of 
happiness  and  disappear  when  the  first  trouble  came, 
seemed  to  her  not  worth  caring  for. 

She  silently  handed  back  the  letter  to  her  stepmother. 

"No  more  than  I  expected,"  said  the  Baroness. 

"Indeed?"  replied  Jacqueline  with  complete  in- 
difference. She  wished  to  give  no  opening  to  any  ex- 
pressions of  sympathy  on  the  part  of  Madame  de 
Nailles. 

"Poor  Madame  d'Avrigny,"  she  added,  "has  bad 
luck;  all  her  actors  seem  to  be  leaving  her." 

This  speech  was  the  vain  bravado  of  a  young  soldier 
going  into  action.  The  poor  child  betrayed  herself  to  the 
experienced  woman,  trained  either  to  detect  or  to  prac- 
tise artifice,  and  who  found  bitter  amusement  in  watch- 
ing the  girl's  assumed  sang-froid.  But  the  mask  fell  off 


THEO  BENTZON 

at  the  first  touch  of  genuine  sympathy.  When  Giselle, 
forgetful  of  a  certain  coolness  between  them  ever  since 
Fred's  departure,  came  to  clasp  her  in  her  arms,  she 
showed  only  her  true  self,  a  girl  suffering  all  the  bitter- 
ness of  a  cruel,  humiliating  desertion.  Long  talks  en- 
sued between  the  friends,  in  which  Jacqueline  poured 
into  Giselle's  ear  her  sad  discoveries  in  the  past,  her 
sorrows  and  anxieties  in  the  present,  and  her  vague 
plans  for  the  future.  "I  must  go  away,"  she  said;  "I 
must  escape  somewhere;  I  can  not  go  on  living  with 
Madame  de  Nailles — I  should  go  mad,  I  should  be 
tempted  every  day  to  upbraid  her  with  her  conduct." 

Giselle  made  no  attempt  to  curb  an  excitement  which 
she  knew  would  resist  all  she  could  say  to  calm  it. 
She  feigned  agreement,  hoping  thereby  to  increase  her 
future  influence,  and  advised  her  friend  to  seek  in  a 
convent  the  refuge  that  she  needed.  But  she  must  do 
nothing  rashly ;  she  should  only  consider  it  a  temporary 
retreat  whose  motive  was  a  wish  to  remain  for  a  while 
within  reach  of  religious  consolation.  In  that  way  she 
would  give  people  nothing  to  talk  about,  and  her  step- 
mother could  not  be  offended.  It  was  never  of  any  use 
to  get  out  of  a  difficulty  by  breaking  all  the  glass  win- 
dows with  a  great  noise,  and  good  resolutions  are  made 
firmer  by  being  matured  in  quietness.  Such  were  the 
lessons  Giselle  herself  had  been  taught  by  the  Benedic- 
tine nuns,  who,  however  deficient  they  might  be  in  the 
higher  education  of  women,  knew  at  least  how  to  bring 
up  young  girls  with  a  view  to  making  them  good  wives. 
Giselle  illustrated  this  day  by  day  in  her  relations  to  a 
husband  as  disagreeable  as  a  husband  well  could  be, 

[206] 


JACQUELINE 

a  man  of  small  intelligence,  who  was  not  even  faithful 
to  her.  But  she  did  not  cite  herself  as  an  example. 
She  never  talked  about  herself,  or  her  own  difficulties. 

"You  are  an  angel  of  sense  and  goodness,"  sobbed 
Jacqueline.  "I  will  do  whatever  you  wish  me  to  do." 

"Count  upon  me — count  upon  all  your  friends,"  said 
Madame  de  Talbrun,  tenderly. 

And  then,  enumerating  the  oldest  and  the  truest  of 
these  friends,  she  unluckily  named  Madame  d'Argy. 
Jacqueline  drew  herself  back  at  once: 

"Oh,  for  pity's  sake!"  she  cried,  "don't  mention 
them  to  me!" 

Already  a  comparison  between  Fred's  faithful  affec- 
tion and  Gerard  de  Cymier's  desertion  had  come  into 
her  mind,  but  she  had  refused  to  entertain  it,  declaring 
resolutely  to  herself  that  she  never  should  repent  her 
refusal.  She  was  sore,  she  was  angry  with  all  men,  she 
wished  all  were  like  Cymier  or  like  Marien,  that  she 
might  hate  every  one  of  them;  she  came  to  the  con- 
clusion in  her  heart  of  hearts  that  all  of  them,  even  the 
best,  if  put  to  the  proof,  would  turn  out  selfish.  She 
liked  to  think  so — to  believe  in  none  of  them.  Thus  it 
happened  that  an  unexpected  visit  from  Fred's  moth- 
er, among  those  that  she  received  in  her  first  days  of 
orphanhood,  was  particularly  agreeable  to  her. 

Madame  d'Argy,  on  hearing  of  the  death  and  of  the 
ruin  of  M.  de  Nailles,  was  divided  by  two  contradic- 
tory feelings.  She  clearly  saw  the  hand  of  Providence 
in  what  had  happened :  her  son  was  in  the  squadron  on 
its  way  to  attack  Formosa;  he  was  in  peril  from  the 
climate,  in  peril  from  Chinese  bullets,  and  assuredly 

[207] 


BENTZON 

those  who  had  brought  him  into  peril  could  not  be  pun- 
ished too  severely;  on  the  other  hand,  the  last  mail 
from  Tonquin  had  brought  her  one  of  those  great  joys 
which  always  incline  us  to  be  merciful.  Fred  had  so 
greatly  distinguished  himself  in  a  series  of  fights  upon 
the  river  Min  that  he  had  been  offered  his  choice  be- 
tween the  Cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  or  promotion. 
He  told  his  mother  now  that  he  had  quite  recovered 
from  a  wound  he  had  received  which  had  brought  him 
some  glory,  but  which  he  assured  her  had  done  him  no 
bodily  harm,  and  he  repeated  to  her  what  he  would  not 
tell  her  at  first,  some  words  of  praise  from  Admiral 
Courbet  of  more  value  in  his  eyes  than  any  reward. 

Triumphant  herself,  and  much  moved  by  pity  for 
Jacqueline,  Madame  d'Argy  felt  as  if  she  must  put  an 
end  to  a  rupture  which  could  not  be  kept  up  when  a 
great  sorrow  had  fallen  on  her  old  friends,  besides  which 
she  longed  to  tell  every  one,  those  who  had  been  blind 
and  ungrateful  in  particular,  that  Fred  had  proved  him- 
self a  hero.  So  Jacqueline  and  her  stepmother  saw 
her  arrive  as  if  nothing  had  ever  come  between  them. 
There  were  kisses  and  tears,  and  a  torrent  of  kindly 
meant  questions,  affectionate  explanations,  and  offers 
of  service.  But  Fred's  mother  could  not  help  show- 
ing her  own  pride  and  happiness  to  those  in  sorrow. 
They  congratulated  her  with  sadness.  Madame  d'Argy 
would  have  liked  to  think  that  the  value  of  what  she 
had  lost  was  now  made  plain  to  Jacqueline.  And  if  it 
caused  her  one  more  pang — what  did  it  matter  ?  He  and 
his  mother  had  suffered  too.  It  was  the  turn  of  others. 
God  was  just.  Resentment,  and  kindness,  and  a  strange 

[208] 


JACQUELINE 

mixed  feeling  of  forgiveness  and  revenge  contended  to- 
gether in  the  really  generous  heart  of  Madame  d'Argy, 
but  that  heart  was  still  sore  within  her.  Pity,  however, 
carried  the  day,  and  had  it  not  been  for  the  irritating 
coldness  of  "that  little  hard-hearted  thing,"  as  she 
called  Jacqueline,  she  would  have  entirely  forgiven  her. 
She  never  suspected  that  the  exaggerated  reserve  of 
manner  that  offended  her  was  owing  to  Jacqueline's 
dread  (commendable  in  itself)  of  appearing  to  wish  in 
her  days  of  misfortune  for  the  return  of  one  she  had 
rejected  in  the  time  of  prosperity. 

In  spite  of  the  received  opinion  that  society  aban- 
dons those  who  are  overtaken  by  misfortune,  all  the 
friends  of  the  De  Nailles  flocked  to  offer  their  condo- 
lences to  the  widow  and  the  orphan  with  warm  demon- 
strations of  interest.  Curiosity,  a  liking  to  witness,  or 
to  experience,  emotion,  the  pleasure  of  being  able  to 
tell  what  has  been  seen  and  heard,  to  find  out  new 
facts  and  repeat  them  again  to  others,  joined  to  a  sort 
of  vague,  commonplace,  almost  intrusive  pity,  are  sen- 
timents, which  sometimes  in  hours  of  great  disaster, 
produce  what  appears  to  wear  the  look  of  sympathy. 
A  fortnight  after  M.  de  Nailles's  death,  between  the 
acts  of  Scylla  and  Charybdis,  the  principal  parts  in 
which  were  taken  by  young  d'Etaples  and  Isabelle 
Ray,  the  company,  as  it  ate  ices,  was  glibly  discussing 
the  real  drama  which  had  produced  in  their  own  elegant 
circle  much  of  the  effect  a  blow  has  upon  an  ant-hill 
—fear,  agitation,  and  a  tumultuous  rush  to  the  scene 
of  the  disaster. 

Great  indignation  was  expressed  against  the  man 
14  [  209  ] 


BENTZON 

who  had  risked  the  fortune  of  his  family  in  speculation. 
Oh!  the  thing  had  been  going  on  for  a  long  while.  His 
fortune  had  been  gradually  melting  away;  Grand  - 
chaux  was  loaded  down  with  mortgages  and  would 
bring  almost  nothing  at  a  forced  sale. 

Everybody  forgot  that  had  M.  de  Nailles's  specula- 
tions been  successful  they  would  have  been  called 
matters  of  business,  conducted  with  great  ability  on  a 
large  scale.  When  a  performer  falls  from  the  tight- 
rope, who  remembers  all  the  times  he  has  not  failed? 
It  is  simply  said  that  he  fell  from  his  own  carelessness. 

"The  poor  Baroness  is  touchingly  resigned,"  said 
Madame  de  Villegry,  with  a  deep  sigh;  "and  heaven 
knows  how  many  other  cares  she  has  besides  the  loss 
of  money!  I  don't  mean  only  the  death  of  her  husband 
— and  you  know  how  much  they  were  attached  to  each 
other — I  am  speaking  of  that  unaccountable  resolu- 
tion of  Jacqueline's." 

Madame  d'Avrigny  here  came  forward  with  her  usual 
equanimity  which  nothing  disturbed,  unless  it  were 
something  which  interfered  with  the  success  of  her 
salon. 

She  was  of  course  very  sorry  for  her  friends  in  trouble, 
but  the  vicissitudes  that  had  happened  to  her  theatri- 
cals she  had  more  at  heart. 

"After  all,"  she  said,  "the  first  act  did  not  go  off 
badly,  did  it  ?  The  musical  part  made  up  for  the  rest. 
That  divine  Strahlberg  is  ready  for  any  emergency. 
How  well  she  sang  that  air  of  La  Petite  Mariee !  It  was 
exquisite,  but  I  regretted  Jacqueline.  She  was  so 
charming  in  that  lively  little  part.  What  a  catastrophe ! 

[210] 


JACQUELINE 

What  a  terrible  catastrophe!  Were  you  speaking  of 
the  retreat  she  wishes  to  make  in  a  convent?  Well,  I 
quite  understand  how  she  feels  about  it!  I  should  feel 
the  same  myself.  In  the  bewilderment  of  a  first  grief 
one  does  not  care  to  see  anything  of  the  world.  Mon 
Dieu!  youth  always  has  these  exaggerated  notions. 
She  will  come  back  to  us.  Poor  little  thing !  Of  course 
it  was  no  fault  of  hers,  and  I  should  not  think  of  blam- 
ing Monsieur  de  Cymier.  The  exigencies  of  his  career — 
but  you  all  must  own  that  unexpected  things  happen  so 
suddenly  in  this  life  that  it  is  enough  to  discourage  any 
one  who  likes  to  open  her  house  and  provide  amuse- 
ment for  her  friends." 

Every  one  present  pitied  her  for  the  contretemps  over 
which  she  had  triumphed  so  successfully.  Then  she 
resumed,  serenely: 

"Don't  you  think  that  Isabelle  played  the  part  almost 
as  well  as  Jacqueline?  Up  to  the  last  moment  I  was 
afraid  that  something  would  go  wrong.  When  one  gets 
into  a  streak  of  ill-luck — but  all  went  off  to  perfection, 
thank  heaven!" 

Meantime  Madame  Odinska  was  whispering  to  one 
of  those  who  sat  near  her  her  belief  that  Jacqueline 
would  never  get  over  her  father's  loss.  "It  would  not 
astonish  me,"  she  said,  "to  hear  that  the  child,  who  has 
a  noble  nature,  would  remain  in  the  convent  and  take 
the  veil." 

Any  kind  of  heroic  deed  seemed  natural  to  this  fool- 
ish enthusiast,  who,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  in  her  own  life, 
had  never  shown  any  tendency  to  heroic  virtues;  her 
mission  in  life  had  seemed  to  be  to  spoil  her  daughters 

[211] 


TH^O  BENTZON 

in  every  possible  way,  and  to  fling  away  more  money 
than  belonged  to  her. 

" Really?  Was  she  so  very  fond  of  her  father!" 
asked  Madame  Ray,  incredulously.  "When  he  was 
alive,  they  did  not  seem  to  make  much  of  him  in  his 
own  house.  Maybe  this  retreat  is  a  good  way  of  getting 
over  a  little  wound  to  her  amour-propre.'''' 

"The  proper  thing,  I  think,"  said  Madame  d'Eta- 
ples, "  would  be  for  the  mother  and  daughter  to  keep  to- 
gether, to  bear  the  troubles  before  them  hand  in  hand. 
Jacqueline  does  not  seem  to  think  much  of  the  last 
wishes  of  the  father  she  pretends  to  be  so  fond  of.  The 
Baroness  showed  me,  with  many  tears,  a  letter  he  left 
joined  to  his  will,  which  was  written  some  years  ago, 
and  which  now,  of  course,  is  of  no  value.  He  told 
mother  and  daughter  to  take  care  of  each  other  and 
hoped  they  would  always  remain  friends,  loving  each 
other  for  love  of  him.  Jacqueline's  conduct  amazes 
me;  it  looks  like  ingratitude." 

"Oh!  she  is  a  hard-hearted  little  thing!  I  always 
thought  so!"  said  Madame  de  Villegry,  carelessly. 

Here  the  rising  of  the  curtain  stopped  short  these  dis- 
cussions, which  displayed  so  much  good-nature  and 
perspicacity.  But  some  laid  the  blame  on  the  influence 
of  that  little  bigot  of  a  Talbrun,  who  had  secretly 
blown  up  the  fire  of  religious  enthusiasm  in  Jacqueline, 
when  Madame  d'Avrigny's  energetic  "Hush!"  put  an 
end  to  the  discussion.  It  was  time  to  come  back  to 
more  immediate  interests,  to  the  play  which  went  on  in 
spite  of  wind  and  tide. 

[212] 


CHAPTER  XIV 

BITTER   DISILLUSION 

OME  people  in  this  world  who  turn 
round  and  round  in  a  daily  circle  of 
small  things,  like  squirrels  in  a  cage, 
have  no  idea  of  the  pleasure  a  young 
creature,  conscious  of  courage,  has  in 
trying  its  strength;  this  struggle  with 
fortune  loses  its  charm  as  it  grows 
longer  and  longer  and  more  and 
more  difficult,  but  at  the  beginning  it  is  an  almost  cer- 
tain remedy  for  sorrow. 

To  her  resolve  to  make  head  against  misfortune 
Jacqueline  owed  the  fact  that  she  did  not  fall  into 
those  morbid  reveries  which  might  have  converted  her 
passing  fancy  for  a  man  who  was  simply  a  male  flirt 
into  the  importance  of  a  lost  love.  Is  there  any  human 
being  conscious  of  energy,  and  with  faith  in  his  or  her 
own  powers,  who  has  not  wished  to  know  something 
of  adversity  in  order  to  rise  to  the  occasion  and  con- 
front it?  To  say  nothing  of  the  pleasure  there  is  in 
eating  brown  bread,  when  one  has  been  fed  only  on 
cake,  or  of  the  satisfaction  that  a  child  feels  when,  after 
strict  discipline,  he  is  left  to  do  as  he  likes,  to  say  noth- 
ing of  the  pleasure  ladies  boarding  in  nunneries  are 
sure  to  feel  on  reentering  the  world,  at  recovering  their 

[213] 


BENTZON 

liberty,  Jacqueline  by  nature  loved  independence,  and 
she  was  attracted  by  the  novelty  of  her  situation  as 
larks  are  attracted  by  a  mirror.  She  was  curious  to 
know  what  life  held  for  her  in  reserve,  and  she  was 
extremely  anxious  to  repair  the  error  she  had  com- 
mitted in  giving  way  to  a  feeling  of  which  she  was 
now  ashamed.  What  could  do  this  better  than  hard 
work?  To  owe  everything  to  herself,  to  her  talents, 
to  her  efforts,  to  her  industry,  such  was  Jacqueline's 
ideal  of  her  future  life. 

She  had,  before  this,  crowned  her  brilliant  reputation 
in  the  cours  of  M.  Regis  by  passing  her  preliminary 
examination  at  the  Sorbonne ;  she  was  confident  of  at- 
taining the  highest  degree — the  brevet  superieur,  and 
while  pursuing  her  own  studies  she  hoped  to  give  lessons 
in  music  and  in  foreign  languages,  etc.  Thus  assured  of 
making  her  own  living,  she  could  afford  to  despise  the 
discreditable  happiness  of  Madame  de  Nailles,  who, 
she  had  no  doubt,  would  shortly  become  Madame 
Marien;  also  the  crooked  ways  in  which  M.  de  Cymier 
might  Dursue  his  fortune-hunting.  She  said  to  herself 
that  she  should  never  marry;  that  she  had  other  objects 
of  interest ;  that  marriage  was  for  those  who  had  noth- 
ing better  before  them ;  and  the  world  appeared  to  her 
under  a  new  aspect,  a  sphere  of  useful  activity  full  of 
possibilities,  of  infinite  variety,  and  abounding  in  inter- 
ests. Marriage  might  be  all  very  well  for  rich  girls,  who 
unhappily  were  objects  of  value  to  be  bought  and  sold ; 
her  semi-poverty  gave  her  the  right  to  break  the  chains 
that  hampered  the  career  of  other  well-born  women — 
she  would  make  her  own  way  in  the  world  like  a  man. 

[214] 


JACQUELINE 

Thus,  at  eighteen,  youth  is  ready  to  set  sail  in  a  light 
skiff  on  a  rough  sea,  having  laid  in  a  good  store  of  im- 
agination and  of  courage,  of  childlike  ignorance  and 
self-esteem. 

No  doubt  she  would  meet  with  some  difficulties ;  that 
thought  did  but  excite  her  ardor.  No  doubt  Madame 
de  Nailles  would  try  to  keep  her  with  her,  and  Jacque- 
line had  provided  herself  beforehand  with  some  double- 
edged  remarks  by  way  of  weapons,  which  she  intended 
to  use  according  to  circumstances.  But  all  these  prepa- 
rations for  defense  or  attack  proved  unnecessary.  When 
she  told  the  Baroness  of  her  plans  she  met  with  no  op- 
position. She  had  expected  that  her  project  of  separa- 
tion would  highly  displease  her  stepmother;  on  the 
contrary,  Madame  de  Nailles  discussed  her  projects 
quietly,  affecting  to  consider  them  merely  temporary, 
but  with  no  indication  of  dissatisfaction  or  resistance. 
In  truth  she  was  not  sorry  that  Jacqueline,  whose  com- 
panionship became  more  and  more  embarrassing  every 
day,  had  cut  the  knot  of  a  difficult  position  by  a  piece 
of  wilfulness  and  perversity  which  seemed  to  put  her  in 
the  wrong.  The  necessity  she  would  have  been  under 
of  crushing  such  a  girl,  who  was  now  eighteen,  would 
have  been  distasteful  and  unprofitable;  she  was  very 
glad  to  get  rid  of  her  stepdaughter,  always  provided  it 
could  be  done  decently  and  without  scandal.  Those 
two,  who  had  once  so  loved  each  other  and  who  were 
now  sharers  in  the  same  sorrows,  became  enemies- 
two  hostile  parties,  which  only  skilful  strategy  could 
ever  again  bring  together.  They  tacitly  agreed  to  cer- 
tain conditions:  they  would  save  appearances;  they 

[215] 


BENTZON 

would  remain  on  outwardly  good  terms  with  each  other 
whatever  happened,  and  above  all  they  would  avoid 
any  explanation.  This  programme  was  faithfully  car- 
ried out,  thanks  to  the  great  tact  of  Madame  de  Nailles. 

No  one  could  have  been  more  watchful  to  appear 
ignorant  of  everything  which,  if  once  brought  to  light, 
would  have  led  to  difficulties;  for  instance,  she  feigned 
not  to  know  that  her  stepdaughter  was  in  possession  of 
a  secret  which,  if  the  world  knew,  would  forever  make 
them  strangers  to  each  other;  nor  would  she  seem 
aware  that  Hubert  Marien,  weary  to  death  of  the  tie 
that  bound  him  to  her,  was  restrained  from  breaking  it 
only  by  a  scruple  of  honor.  Thanks  to  this  seeming 
ignorance,  she  parted  from  Jacqueline  without  any 
open  breach,  as  she  had  long  hoped  to  do,  and  she  re- 
tained as  a  friend  who  supplied  her  wants  a  man  who 
was  only  too  happy  to  be  allowed  at  this  price  to  escape 
the  act  of  reparation  which  Jacqueline,  in  her  simplicity, 
had  dreaded. 

All  those  who,  having  for  years  dined  and  danced 
under  the  roof  of  the  Nailles,  were  accounted  their 
friends  by  society,  formed  themselves  into  two  par- 
ties, one  of  which  lauded  to  the  skies  the  dignity  and 
resignation  of  the  Baroness,  while  the  other  admired  the 
force  of  character  in  Jacqueline. 

Visitors  flocked  to  the  convent  which  the  young  girl, 
by  the  advice  of  Giselle,  had  chosen  for  her  retreat  be- 
cause it  was  situated  in  a  quiet  quarter.  She  who 
looked  so  beautiful  in  her  crape  garments,  who  showed 
herself  so  satisfied  in  her  little  cell  with  hardly  any 
furniture,  who  was  grateful  for  the  services  rendered  her 

[216] 


JACQUELINE 

by  the  lay  sisters,  content  with  having  no  salon  but  the 
convent  parlor,  who  was  passing  examinations  to  be- 
come a  teacher,  and  who  seemed  to  consider  it  a  favor 
to  be  sometimes  allowed  to  hear  the  children  in  the 
convent  school  say  their  lessons — was  surely  like  a  hero- 
ine in  a  novel.  And  indeed  Jacqueline  had  the  agree- 
able sensation  of  considering  herself  one.  Public  ad- 
miration was  a  great  help  to  her,  after  she  had  passed 
through  that  crisis  in  her  grief  during  which  she  could 
feel  nothing  but  the  horror  of  knowing  she  should  never 
see  her  father  again,  when  she  had  ceased  to  weep  for 
him  incessantly,  to  pray  for  him,  and  to  turn,  like  a 
wounded  lioness,  on  those  who  blamed  his  reckless 
conduct,  though  she  herself  had  been  its  chief  victim. 

For  three  months  she  hardly  left  the  convent,  walk- 
ing only  in  the  grounds  and  gardens,  which  were  of  con- 
siderable extent.  From  time  to  time  Giselle  came  for 
her  and  took  her  to  drive  in  the  Bois  at  that  hour  of  the 
day  when  few  people  were  there. 

Enguerrand,  who,  thanks  to  his  mother's  care,  was 
beginning  to  be  an  intelligent  and  interesting  child, 
though  he  was  still  painfully  like  M.  de  Talbrun,  was 
always  with  them  in  the  coupe,  kindhearted  Giselle 
thinking  that  nothing  could  be  so  likely  to  assuage 
grief  as  the  prattle  of  a  child.  She  was  astonished — 
she  was  touched  to  the  heart,  by  what  she  called  naively 
the  conversion  of  Jacqueline.  It  was  true  that  the 
young  girl  had  no  longer  any  whims  or  caprices.  All 
the  nuns  seemed  to  her  amiable,  her  lodging  was  all 
she  needed,  her  food  was  excellent;  her  lessons  gave 
her  amusement.  Possibly  the  excitement  of  the  entire 

[217] 


THEO  BENTZON 

change  had  much  to  do  at  first  with  this  philosophy, 
and  in  fact  at  the  end  of  six  months  Jacqueline  owned 
that  she  was  growing  tired  of  dining  at  the  table  d'hote. 
There  was  a  little  knot  of  crooked  old  ladies  who 
were  righteous  overmuch,  and  several  sour  old  maids 
whose  only  occupation  seemed  to  be  to  make  remarks 
on  any  person  who  had  anything  different  in  dress, 
manners,  or  appearance  from  what  they  considered  the 
type  of  the  becoming.  If  it  is  not  good  that  man  should 
live  alone,  it  is  equally  true  that  women  should  not  live 
together.  Jacqueline  found  this  out  as  soon  as  her 
powers  of  observation  came  back  to  her.  And  about 
the  same  time  she  discovered  that  she  was  not  so  free  as 
she  had  flattered  herself  she  should  be.  The  appear- 
ance of  a  lady,  fair  and  with  light  hair,  very  pretty  and 
about  her  own  age,  gave  her  for  the  first  time  an  in- 
clination to  talk  at  table.  She  and  this  young  woman 
met  twice  a  day  at  their  meals,  in  the  morning  and  in 
the  evening;  their  rooms  were  next  each  other,  and  at 
night  Jacqueline  could  hear  her  through  the  thin  par- 
tition giving  utterance  to  sighs,  which  showed  that  she 
was  unhappy.  Several  times,  too,  she  came  upon  her 
in  the  garden  looking  earnestly  at  a  place  where  the 
wall  had  been  broken,  a  spot  whence  it  was  said  a 
Spanish  countess  had  been  carried  off  by  a  bold  ad- 
venturer. Jacqueline  thought  there  must  be  something 
romantic  in  the  history  of  this  newcomer,  and  would 
have  liked  exceedingly  to  know  what  it  might  be.  As 
a  prelude  to  acquaintance,  she  offered  the  young  stran- 
ger some  holy  water  when  they  met  in  the  chapel,  a 
bow  and  a  smile  were  interchanged,  their  fingers 

[218] 


JACQUELINE 

touched.  They  seemed  almost  friends.  After  this, 
Jacqueline  contrived  to  change  her  seat  at  table  to  one 
next  to  this  unknown  person,  so  prettily  dressed,  with 
her  hair  so  nicely  arranged,  and,  though  her  expression 
was  very  sad,  with  a  smile  so  very  winning.  She  alone 
represented  the  world,  the  world  of  Paris,  among  all 
those  ladies,  some  of  whom  were  looking  for  places  as 
companions,  some  having  come  up  from  the  provinces, 
and  some  being  old  ladies  who  had  seen  better  days. 
Her  change  of  place  was  observed  by  the  nun  who  pre- 
sided at  the  table,  and  a  shade  of  displeasure  passed 
over  her  face.  It  was  slight,  but  it  portended  trouble. 
And,  indeed,  when  grace  had  been  said,  Mademoiselle 
de  Nailles  was  sent  for  by  the  Mother  Superior,  who 
gave  her  to  understand  that,  being  so  young,  it  was 
especially  incumbent  on  her  to  be  circumspect  in  her 
choice  of  associates.  Her  place  thenceforward  was  to 

be  between  Madame  de  X ,  an  old,  deaf  lady,  and 

Mademoiselle  J ,  a  former  governess,  as  cold  as  ice 

and  exceedingly  respectable.  As  to  Madame  Saville,  she 
had  been  received  in  the  convent  for  especial  reasons, 
arising  out  of  circumstances  which  did  not  make  her 
a  fit  companion  for  inexperienced  girls.  The  Superior 
hesitated  a  moment  and  then  said:  "Her  husband  re- 
quested us  to  take  charge  of  her,"  in  a  tone  by  which 
Jacqueline  quite  understood  that  "take  charge"  was  a 
synonym  for  "keep  a  strict  watch  upon  her."  She  was 
spied  upon,  she  was  persecuted — unjustly,  no  doubt. 

All  this  increased  the  interest  that  Jacqueline  already 
felt  in  the  lady  with  the  light  hair.  But  she  made  a  low 
curtsey  to  the  Mother  Superior  and  returned  no  an- 

[219] 


TH^O  BENTZON 

swer.  Her  intercourse  with  her  neighbor  was  thence- 
forward, however,  sly  and  secret,  which  only  made  it 
more  interesting  and  exciting.  They  would  exchange 
a  few  words  when  they  met  upon  the  stairs,  in  the  gar- 
den, or  in  the  cloisters,  when  there  was  no  curious  eye 
to  spy  them  out;  and  the  first  time  Jacqueline  went  out 
alone  Madame  Saville  was  on  the  watch,  and,  without 
speaking,  slipped  a  letter  into  her  hand. 

This  first  time  Jacqueline  went  out  was  an  epoch  in 
her  life,  as  small  events  are  sometimes  in  the  annals  of 
nations;  it  was  the  date  of  her  emancipation,  it  coinci- 
ded with  what  she  called  her  choice  of  a  career.  Think- 
ing herself  sure  of  possessing  a  talent  for  teaching,  she 
had  spoken  of  it  to  several  friends  who  had  come  to  see 
her,  and  who  each  and  all  exclaimed  that  they  would 
like  some  lessons,  a  delicate  way  of  helping  her  quite 
understood  by  Jacqueline.  Pupils  like  Belle  Ray  and 
Yvonne  d'Etaples,  who  wanted  her  to  come  twice  a 
week  to  play  duets  with  them  or  to  read  over  new  music, 
were  not  nearly  so  interesting  as  those  in  her  little  class 
who  had  hardly  more  than  learned  their  scales!  Be- 
sides this,  Madame  d'Avrigny  begged  her  to  come  and 
dine  with  her,  when  there  would  be  only  themselves, 
on  Mondays,  and  then  practise  with  Dolly,  who  had 
not  another  moment  in  which  she  could  take  a  lesson. 
She  should  be  sent  home  scrupulously  before  ten 
o'clock,  that  being  the  hour  at  the  convent  when  every 
one  must  be  in.  Jacqueline  accepted  all  these  kind- 
nesses gratefully.  By  Giselle's  advice  she  hid  her 
slight  figure  under  a  loose  cloak  and  put  on  her  head  a 
bonnet  fit  for  a  grandmother,  a  closed  hat  with  long 

[220] 


JACQUELINE 

strings,  which,  when  she  first  put  it  on  her  head,  made 
her  burst  out  laughing.  She  imagined  herself  to  be  go- 
ing forth  in  disguise.  To  walk  the  streets  thus  masked 
she  thought  would  be  amusing,  so  amusing  that  the  mo- 
ment she  set  foot  on  the  street  pavement  she  felt  that  the 
joy  of  living  was  yet  strong  in  her.  With  a  roll  of  music 
in  her  hand,  she  walked  on  rather  hesitatingly,  a  little 
afraid,  like  a  bird  just  escaped  from  the  cage  where  it 
was  born;  her  heart  beat,  but  it  was  with  pleasure; 
she  fancied  every  one  was  looking  at  her,  and  in  fact 
one  old  gentleman,  not  deceived  by  the  cloak,  did  fol- 
low her  till  she  got  into  an  omnibus  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life — a  new  experience  and  a  new  pleasure.  Once 
seated,  and  a  little  out  of  breath,  she  remembered  Ma- 
dame Saville's  letter,  which  she  had  slipped  into  her 
pocket.  It  was  sealed  and  had  a  stamp  on  it;  it  was 
too  highly  scented  to  be  in  good  taste,  and  it  was  ad- 
dressed to  a  lieutenant  of  chasseurs  with  an  aristocratic 
name,  in  a  garrison  at  Fontainebleau. 

Then  Jacqueline  began  vaguely  to  comprehend  that 
Madame  Saville's  husband  might  have  had  serious  rea- 
sons for  commending  his  wife  to  the  surveillance  of  the 
nuns,  and  that  there  might  have  been  some  excuse  for 
their  endeavoring  to  hinder  all  intimacy  between  her- 
self and  the  little  blonde. 

This  office  of  messenger,  thrust  upon  her  without 
asking  permission,  was  not  agreeable  to  Jacqueline,  and 
she  resolved  as  she  dropped  the  missive,  which,  even 
on  the  outside,  looked  compromising,  into  the  nearest 
post-box,  to  be  more  reserved  in  future.  For  which 
reason  she  responded  coldly  to  a  sign  Madame  Saville 


BENTZON 

made  her  when,  in  the  evening,  she  returned  from  giv- 
ing her  lessons. 

Those  lessons — those  excursions  which  took  her 
abroad  in  all  weathers,  though  with  praiseworthy  and 
serious  motives,  into  the  fashionable  parts  of  Paris, 
from  which  she  had  exiled  herself  by  her  own  will — were 
greatly  enjoyed  by  Jacqueline.  Everything  amused 
her,  being  seen  from  a  point  of  view  in  which  she  had 
never  before  contemplated  it.  She  seemed  to  be  at  a 
play,  all  personal  interests  forgotten  for  the  moment, 
looking  at  the  world  of  which  she  was  no  longer  a  part 
with  a  lively,  critical  curiosity,  without  regrets  but  with- 
out cynicism.  The  world  did  not  seem  to  her  bad — 
only  man's  higher  instincts  had  little  part  in  it.  Such, 
at  least,  was  what  she  thought,  so  long  as  people  praised 
her  for  her  courage,  so  long  as  the  houses  in  which  an- 
other Jacqueline  de  Nailles  had  been  once  so  brilliant, 
received  her  with  affection  as  before,  though  she  had 
to  leave  in  an  anteroom  her  modest  waterproof  or  wet 
umbrella.  They  were  even  more  kind  and  cordial  to 
her  than  ever,  unless  an  exaggerated  cordiality  be  one 
form  of  impertinence.  But  the  enthusiasm  bestowed 
on  splendid  instances  of  energy  in  certain  circles,  to 
which  after  all  such  energy  is  a  reproach,  is  superficial, 
and  not  being  genuine  is  sure  not  to  last  long.  Some 
people  said  that  Jacqueline's  staid  manners  were  put 
on  for  effect,  and  that  she  was  only  attempting  to  play 
a  difficult  part  to  which  she  was  not  suited;  others 
blamed  her  for  not  being  up  to  concert-pitch  in  matters 
of  social  interest.  The  first  time  she  felt  the  pang  of 
exclusion  was  at  Madame  d'Avrigny's,  who  was  at  the 

222 


JACQUELINE 

same  moment  overwhelming  her  with  expressions  of 
regard.  In  the  first  place,  she  could  see  that  the  little 
family  dinner  to  which  she  had  been  so  kindly  invited 
was  attended  by  so  many  guests  that  her  deep  mourn- 
ing seemed  out  of  place  among  them.  Then  Madame 
d'Avrigny  would  make  whispered  explanations,  which 
Jacqueline  was  conscious  of,  and  which  were  very  pain- 
ful to  her.  Such  words  as:  " Old  friend  of  the  family;" 
"Is  giving  music  lessons  to  my  daughter;"  fell  more 
than  once  upon  her  ear,  followed  by  exclamations  of: 
"Poor  thing!"  "So  courageous!"  "Chivalric  senti- 
ments!" Of  course,  everyone  added  that  they  excused 
her  toilette.  Then  when  she  tried  to  escape  such  re- 
marks by  wearing  a  new  gown,  Dolly,  who  was  always 
a  little  fool  (there  is  no  cure  for  that  infirmity)  cried  out 
in  a  tone  such  as  she  never  would  have  dared  to  use  in 
the  days  when  Jacqueline  was  a  model  of  elegance: 
"Oh,  how  fine  you  are!"  Then  again,  Madame 
d'Avrigny,  notwithstanding  the  good  manners  on  which 
she  prided  herself,  could  not  conceal  that  the  obligation 
of  sending  home  the  recluse  to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  at 
a  certain  hour,  made  trouble  with  her  servants,  who 
were  put  out  of  their  way.  Jacqueline  seized  on  this 
pretext  to  propose  to  give  up  the  Monday  music-lesson, 
and  after  some  polite  hesitation  her  offer  was  accepted, 
evidently  to  Madame  d'Avrigny's  relief. 

In  this  case  she  had  the  satisfaction  of  being  the  one 
to  propose  the  discontinuance  of  the  lessons.  At  Ma- 
dame Ray's  she  was  simply  dismissed.  About  the  close 
of  winter  she  was  told  that  as  Isabelle  was  soon  to  be 
married  she  would  have  no  time  for  music  till  her  wed- 

[223] 


BENTZON 

ding  was  over,  and  about  the  same  time  the  d'Etaples 
told  her  much  the  same  thing.  This  was  not  to  be 
wondered  at,  for  Mademoiselle  Ray  was  engaged  to  an 
officer  of  dragoons,  the  same  Marcel  d'Etaples  who  had 
acted  with  her  in  Scylla  and  Charybdis,  and  Madame 
Ray,  being  a  watchful  mother,  was  not  long  in  per- 
ceiving that  Marcel  came  to  pay  court  to  Isabelle  too 
frequently  at  the  hour  for  her  music-lesson.  Madame 
d'Etaples  on  her  part  had  made  a  similar  discovery, 
and  both  judged  that  the  presence  of  so  beautiful  a  girl, 
in  Jacqueline's  position,  might  not  be  desirable  in  these 
interviews  between  lovers. 

When  Giselle,  as  she  was  about  to  leave  town  for  the 
country  in  July,  begged  Jacqueline,  who  seemed  run 
down  and  out  of  spirits,  to  come  and  stay  with  her,  the 
poor  child  was  very  glad  to  accept  the  invitation.  Her 
pupils  were  leaving  her  one  after  another,  she  could  not 
understand  why,  and  she  was  bored  to  death  in  the  con- 
vent, whose  strict  rules  were  drawn  tighter  on  her  than 
before,  for  the  nuns  had  begun  to  understand  her  better, 
and  to  discover  the  real  worldliness  of  her  character. 
At  the  same  time,  that  retreat  within  these  pious  walls 
no  longer  seemed  like  paradise  to  Jacqueline;  her 
transition  from  the  deepest  crape  to  the  softer  tints  of 
half  mourning,  seemed  to  make  her  less  of  an  angel  in 
their  eyes.  They  said  to  each  other  that  Mademoiselle 
de  Nailles  was  fanciful,  and  fancies  are  the  very  last 
things  wanted  in  a  convent,  for  fancies  can  brave  bolts, 
and  make  their  escape  beyond  stone  walls,  whatever 
means  may  be  taken  to  clip  their  wings. 

"She  does  not  seem  like  the  same  person,"  cried  the 
[224] 


JACQUELINE 

good  sisters,  who  had  been  greatly  edified  at  first  by  her 
behavior,  and  who  were  almost  ready  now  to  be  shocked 
at  her. 

The  course  of  things  was  coming  back  rapidly  into 
its  natural  channel;  in  obedience  to  the  law  which 
makes  a  tree,  apparently  dead,  put  forth  shoots  in 
springtime.  And  that  inevitable  re-budding  and  re- 
blossoming  was  beautiful  to  see  in  this  young  human 
plant.  M.  de  Talbrun,  Jacqueline's  host,  could  not 
fail  to  perceive  it.  At  first  he  had  been  annoyed  with 
Giselle  for  giving  the  invitation,  having  a  habit  of 
finding  fault  with  everything  he  had  not  ordered  or 
suggested,  by  virtue  of  his  marital  authority,  and  also 
because  he  hated  above  all  things,  as  he  said,  to  have 
people  in  his  house  who  were  "wobegones."  But  in  a 
week  he  was  quite  reconciled  to  the  idea  of  keeping 
Mademoiselle  de  Nailles  all  the  summer  at  the  Chateau 
de  Fresne.  Never  had  Giselle  known  him  to  take  so 
much  trouble  to  be  amiable,  and  indeed  Jacqueline  saw 
him  much  more  to  advantage  at  home  than  in  Paris, 
where,  as  she  had  often  said,  he  diffused  too  strong  an 
odor  of  the  stables.  At  Fresne,  it  was  more  easy  to  for- 
give him  for  talking  always  of  his  stud  and  of  his  ken- 
nel, and  then  he  was  so  obliging!  Every  day  he  pro- 
posed some  new  jaunt,  an  excursion  to  see  some  view, 
to  visit  all  the  ruined  chdteaux  or  abbeys  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. And,  with  surprising  delicacy,  M.  de  Tal- 
brun refrained  from  inviting  too  many  of  his  country 
neighbors,  who  might  perhaps  have  scared  Jacqueline 
and  arrested  her  gradual  return  to  gayety.  They  might 
also  have  interrupted  his  tete-a-tete  with  his  wife's  guest, 
*5  [225] 


BENTZON 

for  they  had  many  such  conversations.  Giselle  was 
absorbed  in  the  duty  of  teaching  her  son  his  a,  b,  c. 
Besides,  being  very  timid,  she  had  never  ridden  on 
horseback,  and,  naturally,  riding  was  delightful  to  her 
cousin.  Jacqueline  was  never  tired  of  it;  while  she 
paid  as  little  attention  to  the  absurd  remarks  Oscar 
made  to  her  between  their  gallops  as  a  girl  does  at  a 
ball  to  the  idle  words  of  her  partner.  She  supposed  it 
was  his  custom  to  talk  in  that  manner — a  sort  of  rough 
gallantry — but  with  the  best  intentions.  Jacqueline 
was  disposed  to  look  upon  her  life  at  Fresne  as  a  feast 
after  a  long  famine.  Everything  was  to  her  taste,  the 
whole  appearance  of  this  lordly  chateau  of  the  time  of 
Louis  XIII,  the  splendid  trees  in  the  home  park,  the 
gardens  laid  out  a  la  Fran$aise,  decorated  with  art  and 
kept  up  carefully.  Everything,  indeed,  that  pertained 
to  that  high  life  which  to  Giselle  had  so  little  impor- 
tance, was  to  her  delightful.  Giselle's  taste  was  so 
simple  that  it  was  a  constant  subject  of  reproach  from 
her  husband.  To  be  sure,  it  was  with  him  a  general 
rule  to  find  fault  with  her  about  everything.  He  did 
not  spare  her  his  reproaches  on  a  multitude  of  subjects; 
all  day  long  he  was  worrying  her  about  small  trifles 
with  which  he  should  have  had  nothing  to  do.  It  is  a 
mistake  to  suppose  that  a  man  can  not  be  brutal  and 
fussy  at  the  same  time.  M.  de  Talbrun  was  proof  to 
the  contrary. 

"You  are  too  patient,"  said  Jacqueline  often  to 
Giselle.  "You  ought  to  answer  him  back — to  defend 
yourself.  I  am  sure  if  you  did  so  you  would  have  him, 
by-and-bye,  at  your  beck  and  call." 

[226] 


JACQUELINE 

"Perhaps  so.  I  dare  say  you  could  have  managed 
better  than  I  do,"  replied  Giselle,  with  a  sad  smile,  but 
without  a  spark  of  jealousy.  "Oh,  you  are  in  high 
favor.  He  gave  up  this  week  the  races  at  Deauville, 
the  great  race  week  from  which  he  has  never  before  been 
absent,  since  our  marriage.  But  you  see  my  ambition 
has  become  limited;  I  am  satisfied  if  he  lets  me  alone." 
Giselle  spoke  these  words  with  emphasis,  and  then  she 
added:  "and  lets  me  bring  up  his  son  my  own  way. 
That  is  all  I  ask." 

Jacqueline  thought  in  her  heart  that  it  was  wrong  to 
ask  so  little,  that  poor  Giselle  did  not  know  how  to 
make  the  best  of  her  husband,  and,  curious  to  find  out 
what  line  of  conduct  would  serve  best  to  subjugate  M. 
de  Talbrun,  she  became  herself — that  is  to  say,  a  born 
coquette — venturing  from  one  thing  to  another,  like  a 
child  playing  fearlessly  with  a  bulldog,  who  is  gentle 
only  with  him,  or  a  fly  buzzing  round  a  spider's  web, 
while  the  spider  lies  quietly  within. 

She  would  tease  him,  contradict  him,  and  make  him 
listen  to  long  pieces  of  scientific  music  as  she  played 
them  on  the  piano,  when  she  knew  he  always  said  that 
music  to  him  was  nothing  but  a  disagreeable  noise; 
she  would  laugh  at  his  thanks  when  a  final  chord,  struck 
with  her  utmost  force,  roused  him  from  a  brief  slum- 
ber; in  short,  it  amused  her  to  prove  that  this  coarse, 
rough  man  was  to  her  alone  no  object  of  fear.  She 
would  have  done  better  had  she  been  afraid. 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that,  as  they  rode  together 
through  some  of  the  prettiest  roads  in  the  most  beautiful 
part  of  Normandy,  M.  de  Talbrun  began  to  talk,  with 

[227] 


BENTZON 

an  ever-increasing  vivacity,  of  the  days  when  they  first 
met  at  Treport,  relating  a  thousand  little  incidents 
which  Jacqueline  had  forgotten,  and  from  which  it  was 
easy  to  see  that  he  had  watched  her  narrowly,  though 
he  was  on  the  eve  of  his  own  marriage.  With  unneces- 
sary persistence,  and  stammering  as  he  was  apt  to  do 
when  moved  by  any  emotion,  he  repeated  over  and  over 
again,  that  from  the  first  moment  he  had  seen  her  he 
had  been  struck  by  her — devilishly  struck  by  her — he 
had  been,  indeed!  And  one  day  when  she  answered,  in 
order  not  to  appear  to  attach  any  importance  to  this 
declaration,  that  she  was  very  glad  of  it,  he  took  an 
opportunity,  as  their  horses  stopped  side  by  side  before 
a  beautiful  sunset,  to  put  his  arm  suddenly  round  her 
waist,  and  give  her  a  kiss,  so  abrupt,  so  violent,  so  out- 
rageous, that  she  screamed  aloud.  He  did  not  remove 
his  arm  from  her,  his  coarse,  red  face  drew  near  her  own 
again  with  an  expression  that  filled  her  with  horror. 
She  struggled  to  free  herself,  her  horse  began  to  rear, 
she  screamed  for  help  with  all  her  might,  but  nothing 
answered  her  save  an  echo.  The  situation  seemed  crit- 
ical for  Jacqueline.  As  to  M.  de  Talbrun,  he  was  quite 
at  his  ease,  as  if  he  were  accustomed  to  make  love  like 
a  centaur;  while  the  girl  felt  herself  in  peril  of  being 
thrown  at  any  moment,  and  trampled  under  his  horse's 
feet.  At  last  she  succeeded  in  striking  her  aggressor 
a  sharp  blow  across  the  face  with  her  riding-whip. 
Blinded  for  a  moment,  he  let  her  go,  and  she  took  ad- 
vantage of  her  release  to  put  her  horse  to  its  full  speed. 
He  galloped  after  her,  beside  himself  with  wrath  and 
agitation;  it  was  a  mad  but  silent  race,  until  they 

[228] 


JACQUELINE 

reached  the  gate  of  the  Chateau  de  Fresne,  which  they 
entered  at  the  same  moment,  their  horses  covered  with 
foam. 

"How  foolish!"  cried  Giselle,  coming  to  meet  them. 
"  Just  see  in  what  a  state  you  have  brought  home  your 
poor  horses." 

Jacqueline,  pale  and  trembling,  made  no  answer. 
M.  de  Talbrun,  as  he  helped  her  to  dismount,  whis- 
pered, savagely:  "Not  a  word  of  this!" 

At  dinner,  his  wife  remarked  that  some  branch  must 
have  struck  him  on  the  cheek,  there  was  a  red  mark 
right  across  his  face  like  a  blow. 

"We were  riding  through  the  woods," he  answered, 
shortly. 

Then  Giselle  began  to  suspect  something,  and  re- 
marked that  nobody  was  talking  that  evening,  asking, 
with  a  half-smile,  whether  they  had  been  quarrelling. 

"We  did  have  a  little  difference,"  Oscar  replied, 
quietly. 

"Oh,  it  did  not  amount  to  anything,"  he  said,  light- 
ing his  cigar;  "let  us  make  friends  again,  won't  you?" 
he  added,  holding  out  his  hand  to  Jacqueline.  She 
was  obliged  to  give  him  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  as  she 
said  in  her  turn,  with  audacity  equal  to  his  own : 

"Oh,  it  was  less  than  nothing.  Only,  Giselle,  I  told 
your  husband  that  I  had  had  some  bad  news,  and  shall 
have  to  go  back  to  Paris,  and  he  tried  to  persuade  me 
not  to  go." 

"I  beg  you  not  to  go,"  said  Oscar,  vehemently. 

"Bad  news?"  repeated  Giselle,  "you  did  not  say  a 
word  to  me  about  it!" 

[229] 


TH&O  BENTZON 

"I  did  not  have  a  chance.  My  old  Modeste  is  very 
ill  and  asks  me  to  come  to  her.  I  should  never  forgive 
myself  if  I  did  not  go." 

"What,  Modeste?  So  very  ill?  Is  it  really  so  seri- 
ous? What  a  pity!  But  you  will  come  back  again?" 

"If  I  can.  But  I  must  leave  Fresne  to-morrow 
morning." 

"Oh,  I  defy  you  to  leave  Fresne!"  said  M.  de 
Talbrun. 

Jacqueline  leaned  toward  him,  and  said  firmly,  but 
in  a  low  voice:  "If  you  attempt  to  hinder  me,  I  swear 
I  will  tell  everything." 

All  that  evening  she  did  not  leave  Giselle's  side  for  a 
moment,  and  at  night  she  locked  herself  into  her  cham- 
ber and  barricaded  the  door,  as  if  a  mad  dog  or  a  mur- 
derer were  at  large  in  the  ch&teau. 

Giselle  came  into  her  room  at  an  early  hour. 

"Is  what  you  said  yesterday  the  truth,  Jacqueline? 
Is  Modeste  really  ill?  Are  you  sure  you  have  had  no 
reason  to  complain  of  anybody  in  this  place? — of  any 
one?" 

Then,  after  a  pause,  she  added: 

"Oh,  my  darling,  how  hard  it  is  to  do  good  even  to 
those  whom  we  most  dearly  love." 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  said  Jacqueline,  with  an 
effort.  "Everybody  has  been  kind  to  me." 

They  kissed  each  other  with  effusion,  but  M.  de  Tal- 
brun's  leave-taking  was  icy  in  the  extreme.  Jacque- 
line had  made  a  mortal  enemy. 

The  grand  outline  of  the  chdteau,  built  of  brick  and 
stone  with  its  wings  flanked  by  towers,  the  green  turf 

[230] 


JACQUELINE 

of  the  great  park  in  which  it  stood,  passed  from  her 
sight  as  she  drove  away,  like  some  vision  in  a  dream. 

"I  shall  never  come  back — never  come  back!" 
thought  Jacqueline.  She  felt  as  if  she  had  been  thrust 
out  everywhere.  For  one  moment  she  thought  of  seek- 
ing refuge  at  Lizerolles,  which  was  not  very  many  miles 
from  the  railroad  station,  and  when  there  of  telling 
Madame  d'Argy  of  her  difficulties,  and  asking  her 
advice;  but  false  pride  kept  her  from  doing  so — the 
same  false  pride  which  had  made  her  write  coldly,  in 
answer  to  the  letters  full  of  feeling  and  sympathy  Fred 
had  written  to  her  on  receiving  news  of  her  father's 
death. 


[231] 


CHAPTER  XV 

TREACHEROUS   KINDNESS 

I 

'HE  experience  through  which  Jacque- 
line had  just  passed  was  not  calcu- 
lated to  fortify  her  or  to  elevate  her 
soul.  She  felt  for  the  first  time  that 
her  unprotected  situation  and  her 
poverty  exposed  her  to  insult,  for 
what  other  name  could  she  give  to 
the  outrageous  behavior  of  M.  de 
Talbrun,  which  had  degraded  her  in  her  own  eyes? 

What  right  had  that  man  to  treat  her  as  his  play- 
thing ?  Her  pride  and  all  her  womanly  instincts  rose 
up  in  rebellion.  Her  nerves  had  been  so  shaken  that 
she  sobbed  behind  her  veil  ail  the  way  to  her  destina- 
tion. Paris,  when  she  reached  it,  offered  her  almost 
nothing  that  could  comfort  or  amuse  her.  That  city  is 
always  empty  and  dull  in  August,  more  so  than  at  any 
other  season.  Even  the  poor  occupation  of  teaching 
her  little  class  of  music  pupils  had  been  taken  away 
by  the  holidays.  Her  sole  resource  was  in  Modeste's 
society.  Modeste — who,  by  the  way,  had  never  been 
ill,  and  who  suffered  from  nothing  but  old  age — was 
delighted  to  receive  her  dear  young  lady  in  her  little 
room  far  up  under  the  roof,  where,  though  quite  in- 
firm, she  lived  comfortably,  on  her  savings.  Jacque- 
line, sitting  beside  her  as  she  sewed,  was  soothed  by  her 


JACQUELINE 

old  nursery  tales,  or  by  anecdotes  of  former  days.  Her 
own  relatives  were  often  the  old  woman's  theme.  She 
knew  the  history  of  Jacqueline's  family  from  beginning 
to  end;  but,  wherever  her  story  began,  it  invariably 
wound  up  with: 

"If  only  your  poor  papa  had  not  made  away  with  all 
your  money!" 

And  Jacqueline  always  answered: 

"He  was  quite  at  liberty  to  do  what  he  pleased  with 
what  belonged  to  him." 

"Belonged  to  him!  Yes,  but  what  belonged  to  you? 
And  how  does  it  happen  that  your  stepmother  seems 
so  well  off?  Why  doesn't  some  family  council  inter- 
fere? My  little  pet,  to  think  of  your  having  to  work 
for  your  living.  It's  enough  to  kill  me!" 

"Bah!  Modeste,  there  are  worse  things  than  being 
poor." 

"Maybe  so,"  answered  the  old  nurse,  doubtfully, 
"but  when  one  has  money  troubles  along  with  the  rest, 
the  money  troubles  make  other  things  harder  to  bear; 
whereas,  if  you  have  money  enough  you  can  bear  any- 
thing, and  you  would  have  had  enough,  after  all,  if 
you  had  married  Monsieur  Fred." 

At  which  point  Jacqueline  insisted  that  Modeste 
should  be  silent,  and  answered,  resolutely:  "I  mean 
never  to  marry  at  all." 

To  this  Modeste  made  answer:  "That's  another  of 
your  notions.  The  worst  husband  is  always  better 
than  none;  and  I  know,  for  I  never  married." 

"That's  why  you  talk  such  nonsense,  my  poor  dear 
Modeste!  You  know  nothing  about  it." 

[233] 


THEO  BENTZON 

One  day,  after  one  of  these  visits  to  the  only  friend, 
as  she  believed,  who  remained  to  her  in  the  world — for 
her  intimacy  with  Giselle  was  spoiled  forever — she  saw, 
as  she  walked  with  a  heavy  heart  toward  her  convent 
in  a  distant  quarter,  an  open  fiacre  pull  up,  in  obe- 
dience to  a  sudden  cry  from  a  passenger  who  was  sit- 
ting inside.  The  person  sprang  out,  and  rushed  to- 
ward Jacqueline  with  loud  exclamations  of  joy. 

"Madame  Strahlberg!" 

"Dear  Jacqueline!  What  a  pleasure  to  meet  you!" 
And,  the  street  being  nearly  empty,  Madame  Strahl- 
berg heartily  embraced  her  friend. 

"I  have  thought  of  you  so  often,  darling,  for  months 
past — they  seem  like  years,  like  centuries!  Where  have 
you  been  all  that  long  time?" 

In  point  of  fact,  Jacqueline  had  no  proof  that  the 
three  Odinska  ladies  had  ever  remembered  her  exist- 
ence, but  that  might  have  been  partly  her  own  fault, 
or  rather  the  fault  of  Giselle,  who  had  made  her  promise 
to  have  as  little  as  possible  to  do  with  such  compromis- 
ing personages.  She  was  seized  with  a  kind  of  remorse 
when  she  found  such  warmth  of  recognition  from  the 
amiable  Wanda.  Had  she  not  shown  herself  ungrate- 
ful and  cowardly?  People  about  whom  the  world 
talks,  are  they  not  sometimes  quite  as  good  as  those 
who  have  not  lost  their  standing  in  society,  like  M.  de 
Talbrun?  It  seemed  to  her  that,  go  where  she  would, 
she  ran  risks. 

The  cynicism  that  is  the  result  of  sad  experience  was 
beginning  to  show  itself  in  Jacqueline. 

"Oh,  forgive  me!"  she  said,  feeling  contrite. 
[234] 


JACQUELINE 

"Forgive  you  for  what,  you  beautiful  creature?" 
asked  Madame  Strahlberg,  with  sincere  astonishment. 

She  had  the  excellent  custom  of  never  observing 
when  people  neglected  her,  or  at  least,  of  never  show- 
ing that  she  did  so,  partly  because  her  life  was  so  full 
of  varied  interests  that  she  cared  little  for  such  trifles, 
and  secondly  because,  having  endured  several  affronts 
of  that  nature,  she  had  ceased  to  be  very  sensitive. 

"I  knew,  through  the  d'Avrignys,"  she  said,  "that 
you  were  still  at  the  convent.  You  are  not  going  to 
take  the  veil  there,  are  you  ?  It  would  be  a  great  pity. 
No  ?  You  wish  to  lead  the  life  of  an  intelligent  woman 
who  is  free  and  independent  ?  That  is  well ;  but  it  was 
rather  an  odd  idea  to  begin  by  going  into  a  cloister. 
Oh! — I  see,  public  opinion?"  And  Madame  Strahl- 
berg made  a  little  face,  expressive  of  her  contempt  for 
public  opinion. 

"It  does  not  pay  to  consult  other  people's  opin- 
ions— it  is  useless,  believe  me.  The  more  we  sacri- 
fice to  public  opinion,  the  more  it  asks  of  us.  I 
cut  that  matter  short  long  ago.  But  how  glad  I 
am  to  hear  that  you  don't  intend  to  hide  that  lovely 
face  in  a  convent.  You  are  looking  better  than  ever 
—a  little  too  pale,  still,  perhaps — a  little  too  interest- 
ing. Colette  will  be  so  glad  to  see  you,  for  you  must 
let  me  take  you  home  with  me.  I  shall  carry  you  off, 
whether  you  will  or  not,  now  I  have  caught  you.  We 
will  have  a  little  music  just  among  ourselves,  as  we 
had  in  the  good  old  times — you  know,  our  dear  music ; 
you  will  feel  like  yourself  again.  Ah,  art — there  is 
nothing  to  compare  with  art  in  this  world,  my  darling!" 

[235] 


BENTZON 

Jacqueline  yielded  without  hesitation,  only  too  glad 
of  the  unhoped-for  good  fortune  which  relieved  her 
from  her  ennui  and  her  depression.  And  soon  the 
hired  victoria  was  on  its  way  to  that  quarter  of  the  city 
which  is  made  up  of  streets  with  geographical  names, 
and  seems  as  if  it  were  intended  to  lodge  all  the  nations 
under  heaven.  It  stopped  in  the  Rue  de  Naples,  before 
a  house  that  was  somewhat  showy,  but  which  showed 
from  its  outside,  that  it  was  not  inhabited  by  high- 
bred people.  There  were  pink  linings  to  lace  curtains 
at  the  windows,  and  quantities  of  green  vines  drooped 
from  the  balconies,  as  if  to  attract  attention  from  the 
passers-by.  Madame  Strahlberg,  with  her  ostentatious 
and  undulating  walk,  which  caused  men  to  turn  and 
notice  her  as  she  went  by,  went  swiftly  up  the  stairs  to 
the  second  story.  She  put  one  finger  on  the  electric 
bell,  which  caused  two  or  three  little  dogs  inside  to 
begin  barking,  and  pushed  Jacqueline  in  before  her, 
crying:  "Colette!  Mamma!  See  whom  I  have 
brought  back  to  you!"  Meantime  doors  were  hur- 
riedly opened,  quick  steps  resounded  in  the  ante- 
chamber, and  the  newcomer  found  herself  received 
with  a  torrent  of  affectionate  and  delighted  exclama- 
tions, pressed  to  the  ample  bosom  of  Madame  Odinska, 
covered  with  kisses  by  Colette,  and  fawned  upon  by 
the  three  toy  terriers,  the  most  sociable  of  their  kind 
in  all  Paris,  their  mistresses  declared. 

Jacqueline  was  passing  through  one  of  those  mo- 
ments when  one  is  at  the  mercy  of  chance,  when  the 
heart  which  has  been  closed  by  sorrow  suddenly  re- 
vives, expands,  and  softens  under  the  influence  of  a  ray 

[236] 


JACQUELINE 

of  sunshine.  Tears  came  into  her  eyes,  and  she  mur- 
mured : 

"My  friends — my  kind  friends!" 

"Yes,  your  friends,  whatever  happens,  now  and 
always,"  said  Colette,  eagerly,  though  she  had  proba- 
bly barely  given  a  thought  to  Jacqueline  for  eighteen 
months.  Nevertheless,  on  seeing  her,  Colette  really 
thought  she  had  not  for  a  moment  ceased  to  be  fond 
of  her.  "How  you  have  suffered,  you  poor  pussy! 
We  must  set  to  work  and  make  you  feel  a  little  gay, 
at  any  price.  You  see,  it  is  our  duty.  How  lucky 
you  came  to-day— 

A  sign  from  her  sister  stopped  her. 

They  carried  Jacqueline  into  a  large  and  handsome 
salon,  full  of  dust  and  without  curtains,  with  all  the 
furniture  covered  up  as  if  the  family  were  on  the  eve 
of  going  to  the  country.  Madame  Strahlberg,  never- 
theless, was  not  about  to  leave  Paris,  her  habit  being 
to  remain  there  in  the  summer,  sometimes  for  months, 
picnicking  as  it  were,  in  her  own  apartment.  What 
was  curious,  too,  was  that  the  chandelier  and  all  the 
side-lights  had  fresh  wax  candles,  and  seats  were  ar- 
ranged as  if  in  preparation  for  a  play,  while  near  the 
grand  piano  was  a  sort  of  stage,  shut  off  from  the  rest 
of  the  room  by  screens. 

Colette  sat  down  on  one  of  the  front  row  of  chairs 
and  cried:  "I  am  the  audience — I  am  all  ears."  Her 
sister  hurriedly  explained  all  this  to  Jacqueline,  with- 
out waiting  to  be  questioned:  "We  have  been  giving 
some  little  summer  entertainments  of  late,  of  which 
you  see  the  remains."  She  went  at  once  to  the  piano, 


BENTZON 

and  incited  Jacqueline  to  sing  by  beginning  one  of 
their  favorite  duets,  and  Jacqueline,  once  more  in  her 
native  element,  followed  her  lead.  They  went  on 
from  one  song  to  another,  from  the  light  to  the  severe, 
from  scientific  music  to  mere  tunes  and  airs,  turning 
over  the  old  music-books  together. 

"Yes,  you  are  a  little  out  of  practice,  but  all  you  have 
to  do  is  to  rub  off  the  rust.  Your  voice  is  finer  than 
ever— just  like  velvet."  And  Madame  Strahlberg  pre- 
tended that  she  envied  the  fine  mezzo-soprano,  speak- 
ing disparagingly  of  her  own  little  thread  of  a  voice, 
which,  however,  she  managed  so  skilfully.  "What  a 
shame  to  take  up  your  time  teaching,  with  such  a  voice 
as  that!"  she  cried;  "you  are  out  of  your  senses,  my 
dear,  you  are  raving  mad.  It  would  be  sinful  to  keep 
your  gifts  to  yourself!  I  am  very  sorry  to  discourage 
you,  but  you  have  none  of  the  requisites  for  a  teacher. 
The  stage  would  be  best  for  you — Mon  Dieu!  why 
not  ?  You  will  see  La  Rochette  this  evening ;  she  is  a 
person  who  would  give  you  good  advice.  I  wish  she 
could  hear  you!" 

"But  my  dear  friend,  I  can  not  stay,"  murmured 
Jacqueline,  for  those  unexpected  words  "the  stage, 
why  not?"  rang  in  her  head,  made  her  heart  beat 
fast,  and  made  lights  dance  before  her  eyes.  "They 
are  expecting  me  to  dine  at  home." 

"At  your  convent?  I  beg  your  pardon,  I'll  take 
«?:are  of  that.  Don't  you  know  me?  My  claws  sel- 
dom let  go  of  a  prize,  especially  when  that  prize  is 
worth  the  keeping.  A  little  telegram  has  already  been 
sent,  with  your  excuses.  The  telegraph  is  good 

£238] 


JACQUELINE 

for   that,  if  not  for  anything  else:    it  facilitates   im- 
promptus." 

"Long  live  impromptus,"  cried  out  Colette,  "there 
is  nothing  like  them  for  fun!"  And  while  Jacqueline 
was  trying  to  get  away,  not  knowing  exactly  what  she 
was  saying,  but  frightened,  pleased,  and  much  excited, 
Colette  went  on:  "Oh!  I  am  so  glad,  so  glad  you 
came  to-day;  now  you  can  see  the  pantomime!  I 
dreamed,  wasn't  it  odd,  only  last  night,  that  you  were 
acting  it  with  us.  How  can  one  help  believing  in  pre- 
sentiments ?  Mine  are  always  delightful — and  yours  ?  " 

"The  pantomime?"  repeated  Jacqueline  in  be- 
wilderment, "but  I  thought  your  sister  told  me  you 
were  all  alone." 

"How  could  we  have  anything  like  company  in 
August?"  said  Madame  Strahlberg,  interrupting  her; 
"why,  it  would  be  impossible,  there  are  not  four  cats 
in  Paris.  No,  no,  we  sha'n't  have  anybody.  A  few 
friends  possibly  may  drop  in — people  passing  through 
Paris — in  their  travelling-dresses.  Nothing  that  need 
alarm  you.  The  pantomime  Colette  talks  about  is 
only  a  pretext  that  they  may  hear  Monsieur  Szmera." 

And  who  was  M.  Szmera? 

Jacqueline  soon  learned  that  he  was  a  Hungarian, 
second  half -cousin  of  a  friend  of  Kossuth,  the  most 
wonderful  violinist  of  the  day,  who  had  apparently 
superseded  the  famous  Polish  pianist  in  these  ladies' 
interest  and  esteem.  As  for  the  latter,  they  had  almost 
forgotten  his  name,  he  had  behaved  so  badly. 

"But,"  said  Jacqueline,  anxiously,  "you  know  I  am 
obliged  to  be  home  by  ten  o'clock." 

[239] 


THfiO  BENTZON 

"Ah!  that's  like  Cinderella,"  laughed  Wanda. 
"Will  the  stroke  of  the  clock  change  all  the  carriages 
in  Paris  into  pumpkins?  One  can  get  fiacres  at  any 
hour." 

"But  it  is  a  fixed  rule:  I  must  be  in,"  repeated 
Jacqueline,  growing  very  uneasy. 

"Must  you  really?  Madame  Saville  says  it  is  very 
easy  to  manage  those  nuns— 

"What?  Do  you  know  Madame  Saville,  who  was 
boarding  at  the  convent  last  winter?" 

"Yes,  indeed;  she  is  a  countrywoman  of  ours,  a 
friend,  the  most  charming  of  women.  You  will  see 
her  here  this  evening.  She  has  gained  her  divorce 
suit " 

"You  are  mistaken,"  said  Colette,  "she  has  lost  it. 
But  that  makes  no  difference.  She  has  got  tired  of  her 
husband.  Come,  say  'Yes,'  Jacqueline — a  nice,  dear 
1  Yes' — you  will  stay,  will  you  not  ?  Oh,  you  darling!" 

They  dined  without  much  ceremony,  on  the  pretext 
that  the  cook  had  been  turned  off  that  morning  for 
impertinence,  but  immediately  after  dinner  there  was 
a  procession  of  boys  from  a  restaurant,  bringing  whipped 
creams,  iced  drinks,  fruits,  sweetmeats,  and  champagne 
— more  than  would  have  been  wanted  at  the  buffet  of 
a  ball.  The  Prince,  they  said,  had  sent  these  things. 
What  Prince? 

As  Jacqueline  was  asking  this  question,  a  gentleman 
came  in  whose  age  it  would  have  been  impossible  to 
guess,  so  disguised  was  he  by  his  black  wig,  his  dyed 
whiskers,  and  the  soft  bloom  on  his  cheeks,  all  of 
which  were  entirely  out  of  keeping  with  those  parts 

[240] 


JACQUELINE 

of  his  face  that  he  could  not  change.  In  one  of  his 
eyes  was  stuck  a  monocle.  He  was  bedizened  with 
several  orders,  he  bowed  with  military  stiffness,  and 
kissed  with  much  devotion  the  ladies'  hands,  calling 
them  by  titles,  whether  they  had  them  or  not.  His 
foreign  accent  made  it  as  hard  to  detect  his  nationality 
as  it  was  to  know  his  age.  Two  or  three  other  gentle- 
men, not  less  decorated  and  not  less  foreign,  afterward 
came  in.  Colette  named  them  in  a  whisper  to  Jacque- 
line, but  their  names  were  too  hard  for  her  to  pro- 
nounce, much  less  to  remember.  One  of  them,  a 
man  of  handsome  presence,  came  accompanied  by 
a  sort  of  female  ruin,  an  old  lady  leaning  on  a  cane, 
whose  head,  every  time  she  moved,  glittered  with  jew- 
els, placed  in  a  very  lofty  erection  of  curled  hair. 

"That  gentleman's  mother  is  awfully  ugly,"  Jacque- 
line could  not  help  saying. 

"His  mother?  What,  the  Countess?  She  is  neither 
his  mother  nor  his  wife.  He  is  her  gentleman-in-wait- 
ing — that's  all.  Don't  you  understand?  Well,  im- 
agine a  man  who  is  a  sort  of  "gentleman-companion"; 
he  keeps  her  accounts,  he  escorts  her  to  the  theatre, 
he  gives  her  his  arm.  It  is  a  very  satisfactory  arrange- 
ment." 

"The  gentleman  receives  a  salary,  hi  such  a  case?" 
inquired  Jacqueline,  much  amused. 

"Why,  what  do  you  find  in  it  so  extraordinary?" 
said  Colette.  "She  adores  cards,  and  there  he  is, 
always  ready  to  be  her  partner.  Oh,  here  comes  dear 
Madame  Saville!" 

There  were  fresh  cries  of  welcome,  fresh  exchanges 
16  [  241  ] 


TH^O  BENTZON 

of  affectionate  diminutives  and  kisses,  which  seemed 
to  make  the  Prince's  mouth  water.  Jacqueline  dis- 
covered, to  her  great  surprise,  that  she,  too,  was  a 
dear  friend  of  Madame  Saville's,  who  called  her  her 
good  angel,  in  reference,  no  doubt,  to  the  letter  she 
had  secretly  put  into  the  post.  At  last  she  said,  trying 
to  make  her  escape  from  the  party:  "But  it  must  be 
nine  o'clock." 

"Oh!  but  you  must  hear  Szmera." 

A  handsome  young  fellow,  stoutly  built,  with  heavy 
eyebrows,  a  hooked  nose,  a  quantity  of  hair  growing 
low  upon  his  forehead,  and  lips  that  were  too  red,  the 
perfect  type  of  a  Hungarian  gypsy,  began  a  piece  of 
his  own  composition,  which  had  all  the  ardor  of  a  mild 
galopade  and  a  Satanic  hunt,  with  intervals  of  dying 
sweetness,  during  which  the  painted  skeleton  they 
called  the  Countess  declared  that  she  certainly  heard 
a  nightingale  warbling  in  the  moonlight. 

This  charming  speech  was  forthwith  repeated  by  her 
"umbra"  in  all  parts  of  the  room,  which  was  now 
nearly  filled  with  people,  a  mixed  multitude,  some  of 
whom  were  frantic  about  music,  others  frantic  about 
Wanda  Strahlberg.  There  were  artists  and  amateurs 
present,  and  even  respectable  women,  for  Madame 
d'Avrigny,  attracted  by  the  odor  of  a  species  of  Bo- 
hemianism,  had  come  to  breathe  it  with  delight,  under 
cover  of  a  wish  to  glean  ideas  for  her  next  winter's 
receptions. 

Then  again  there  were  women  who  had  been 
dropped  out  of  society,  like  Madame  de  Versanne, 
who,  with  her  sunken  eyes  and  faded  face,  was  not 

[242] 


JACQUELINE 

likely  again  to  pick  up  in  the  street  a  bracelet  worth 
ten  thousand  francs.  There  was  a  literary  woman  who 
signed  herself  Fraisiline,  and  wrote  papers  on  fashion 
—she  was  so  painted  and  bedizened  that  some  one 
remarked  that  the  principal  establishments  she  praised 
in  print  probably  paid  her  in  their  merchandise.  There 
was  a  dowager  whose  aristocratic  name  appeared  daily 
on  the  fourth  page  of  the  newspapers,  attesting  the 
merits  of  some  kind  of  quack  medicine;  and  a  retired 
opera-singer,  who,  having  been  called  Zenaide  Rochet 
till  she  grew  up  in  Montmartre,  where  she  was  born, 
had  had  a  brilliant  career  as  a  star  in  Italy  under  the 
name  of  Zina  Rochette.  La  Rochette's  name,  alas! 
is  unknown  to  the  present  generation. 

In  all,  there  were  about  twenty  persons,  who  made 
more  noise  with  their  applause  than  a  hundred  ordinary 
guests,  for  enthusiasm  was  exacted  by  Madame  Strahl- 
berg.  Profiting  by  the  ovation  to  the  Hungarian 
musician,  Jacqueline  made  a  movement  toward  the 
door,  but  just  as  she  reached  it  she  had  the  misfortune 
of  falling  in  with  her  old  acquaintance,  Nora  Sparks, 
who  was  at  that  moment  entering  with  her  father. 
She  was  forced  to  sit  down  again  and  hear  all  about 
Kate's  marriage.  Kate  had  gone  back  to  New  York, 
her  husband  being  an  American,  but  Nora  said  she 
had  made  up  her  mind  not  to  leave  Europe  till  she 
had  found  a  satisfactory  match. 

"You  had  better  make  haste  about  it,  if  you  expect 
to  keep  me  here,"  said  Mr.  Sparks,  with  a  peculiar 
expression  in  his  eye.  He  was  eager  to  get  home, 
having  important  business  to  attend  to  in  the  West. 

[243] 


TH&O  BENTZON 

"Oh,  papa,  be  quiet!  I  shall  find  somebody  at 
Bellagio.  Why,  darling,  are  you  still  in  mourning?" 

She  had  forgotten  that  Jacqueline  had  lost  her 
father.  Probably  she  would  not  have  thought  it  neces- 
sary to  wear  black  so  long  for  Mr.  Sparks.  Meantime, 
Madame  Strahlberg  and  her  sister  had  left  the  room. 

"When  are  they  coming  back?"  said  Jacqueline, 
growing  very  nervous.  "It  seems  to  me  this  clock 
must  be  wrong.  It  says  half-past  nine.  I  am  sure 
it  must  be  later  than  that." 

"Half -past  nine! — why,  it  is  past  eleven,"  replied 
Miss  Nora,  with  a  giggle.  "Do  you  suppose  they  pay 
any  attention  to  clocks  in  this  house?  Everything 
here  is  topsy-turvy." 

"Oh!  what  shall  I  do?"  sighed  poor  Jacqueline,  on 
the  verge  of  tears. 

"Why,  do  they  keep  you  such  a  prisoner  as  that? 
Can't  you  come  in  a  little  late— 

"They  wouldn't  open  the  doors — they  never  open 
the  doors  on  any  pretext  after  ten  o'clock,"  cried 
Jacqueline,  beside  herself. 

"Then  your  nuns  must  be  savages?  You  should 
teach  them  better." 

"Don't  be  worried,  dear  little  one,  you  can  sleep  on 
this  sofa,"  said  Madame  Odinska,  kindly. 

To  whom  had  she  not  offered  that  useful  sofa  ?  Wan- 
da and  Colette  were  just  as  ready  to  propose  that  others 
should  spend  the  night  with  them  as,  on  the  smallest 
pretext,  to  accept  the  same  hospitality  from  others. 
Wanda,  indeed,  always  slept  curled  up  like  a  cat  on 
a  divan,  in  a  fur  wrapper,  which  she  put  on  early  in 

[244] 


JACQUELINE 

the  evening  when  she  wanted  to  smoke  cigarettes. 
She  went  to  sleep  at  no  regular  hour.  A  bear's  skin 
was  placed  always  within  her  reach,  so  that  if  she  were 
cold  she  could  draw  it  over  her.  Jacqueline,  not  being 
accustomed  to  these  Polish  fashions,  did  not  seem  to 
be  much  attracted  by  the  offer  of  the  sofa.  She  blamed 
herself  bitterly  for  her  own  folly  in  having  got  herself 
into  a  scrape  which  might  lead  to  serious  conse- 
quences. 

But  this  was  neither  time  nor  place  for  expressions 
of  anxiety;  it  would  be  absurd  to  trouble  every  one 
present  with  her  regrets.  Besides,  the  harm  was  done 
— it  was  irreparable — and  while  she  was  turning  over 
in  her  mind  in  what  manner  she  could  explain  to  the 
Mother  Superior  that  the  mistake  about  the  hour  had 
been  no  fault  of  hers — and  the  Mother  Superior,  alas! 
would  be  sure  to  make  inquiries  as  to  the  friends  whom 
she  had  visited — the  magic  violin  of  M.  Szmera  played 
its  first  notes,  accompanied  by  Madame  Odinska  on 
the  piano,  and  by  a  delicious  little  flute.  They  played 
an  overture,  the  dreamy  sweetness  of  which  extorted 
cries  of  admiration  from  all  the  women. 

Suddenly,  the  screens  parted,  and  upon  the  little  plat- 
form that  represented  a  stage  bounded  a  sort  of  anom- 
alous being,  supple  and  charming,  in  the  traditional 
dress  of  Pierrot,  whom  the  English  vulgarize  and  call 
Harlequin.  He  had  white  camellias  instead  of  buttons 
on  his  loose  white  jacket,  and  the  bright  eyes  of  Wan- 
da shone  out  from  his  red-  and- white  face.  He  held 
a  mandolin,  and  imitated  the  most  charming  of  seren- 
ades, before  a  make-believe  window,  which,  being 

[245] 


THEO  BENTZON 

opened  by  a  white,  round  arm,  revealed  Colette,  dressed 
as  Colombine. 

The  little  pantomime  piece  was  called  Pierrot  in 
Love.  It  consisted  of  a  series  of  dainty  coquetries,  sud- 
den quarrels,  fits  of  jealousy,  and  tender  reconciliations, 
played  by  the  two  sisters.  Colette  with  her  beauty, 
Wanda  with  her  talent,  her  impishness,  her  graceful 
and  voluptuous  attitudes,  electrified  the  spectators, 
especially  in  a  long  monologue,  in  which  Pierrot 
contemplated  suicide,  made  more  effective  by  the  pas- 
sionate and  heart-piercing  strains  of  the  Hungarian's 
violin,  so  that  old  Rochette  cried  out:  "What  a  pity 
such  a  wonder  should  not  be  upon  the  stage!"  La 
Rochette,  now  retired  into  private  life,  wearing  an  old 
dress,  with  her  gray  hair  and  her  black  eyes,  like  those 
of  a  watchful  crocodile,  took  the  pleasure  in  the  panto- 
mime that  all  actors  do  to  the  very  last  in  everything 
connected  with  the  theatre.  She  cried  brava  in  tones 
that  might  reach  Italy;  she  blew  kisses  to  the  actors 
in  default  of  flowers. 

Madame  d'Avrigny  was  also  transported  to  the 
sixth  heaven,  but  Jacqueline's  presence  somewhat 
marred  her  pleasure.  When  she  first  perceived  her 
she  had  shown  great  surprise.  "You  here,  my  dear?" 
she  cried,  "I  thought  you  safe  with  our  own  excellent 
Giselle." 

"Safe,  Madame?  It  seems  to  me  one  can  be  safe 
anywhere,"  Jacqueline  answered,  though  she  was 
tempted  to  say  "safe  nowhere;"  but  instead  she 
inquired  for  Dolly. 

Dolly's  mother  bit  her  lips  and  then  replied:  "You 
[246] 


JACQUELINE 

see  I  have  not  brought  her.  Oh,  yes,  this  house  is 
very  amusing — but  rather  too  much  so.  The  play 
was  very  pretty,  and  I  am  sorry  it  would  not  do  at  my 
house.  It  is  too — too  risque,  you  know;"  and  she 
rehearsed  her  usual  speech  about  the  great  difficulties 
encountered  by  a  lady  who  wished  to  give  entertain- 
ments and  provide  amusement  for  her  friends. 

Meantime  Pierrot,  or  rather  Madame  Strahlberg, 
had  leaped  over  an  imaginary  barrier  and  came  danc- 
ing toward  the  company,  shaking  her  large  sleeves 
and  settling  her  little  snake-like  head  in  her  large 
quilled  collar,  dragging  after  her  the  Hungarian,  who 
seemed  not  very  willing.  She  presented  him  to  Ma- 
dame d'Avrigny,  hoping  that  so  fashionable  a  woman 
might  want  him  to  play  at  her  receptions  during  the 
winter,  and  to  a  journalist  who  promised  to  give  him 
a  notice  in  his  paper,  provided — and  here  he  whispered 
something  to  Pierrot,  who,  smiling,  answered  neither 
yes  nor  no.  The  sisters  kept  on  their  costumes; 
Colette  was  enchanting  with  her  bare  neck,  her  long- 
waisted  black  velvet  corsage,  her  very  short  skirt,  and 
a  sort  of  three-cornered  hat  upon  her  head.  All  the 
men  paid  court  to  her,  and  she  accepted  their  homage, 
becoming  gayer  and  gayer  at  every  compliment,  laugh- 
ing loudly,  possibly  that  her  laugh  might  exhibit  her 
beautiful  teeth. 

Wanda,  as  Pierrot,  sang,  with  her  hands  in  her 
pockets,  a  Russian  village  song:  "Ah!  Dounal-li  moy 
Dounai"  ("Oh!  thou,  my  Danube").  Then  she 
imperiously  called  Jacqueline  to  the  piano:  "It  is 
your  turn  now,"  she  said,  "most  humble  violet." 


TH^O  BENTZON 

Up  to  that  moment,  Jacqueline's  deep  mourning  had 
kept  the  gentlemen  present  from  addressing  her,  though 
she  had  been  much  stared  at.  Although  she  did  not 
wish  to  sing,  for  her  heart  was  heavy  as  she  thought  of 
the  troubles  that  awaited  her  the  next  day  at  the  con- 
vent, she  sang  what  was  asked  of  her  without  resistance 
or  pretension.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  she  experienced 
the  pride  of  triumph.  Szmera,  though  he  was  furious 
at  not  being  the  sole  lion  of  the  evening,  complimented 
her,  bowing  almost  to  the  ground,  with  one  hand  on 
his  heart;  Madame  Rochette  assured  her  that  she  had 
a  fortune  in  her  throat  whenever  she  chose  to  seek  it; 
persons  she  had  never  seen  and  who  did  not  know  her 
name,  pressed  her  hands  fervently,  saying  that  her 
singing  was  adorable.  All  cried  "  Encore,"  "Encore ! " 
and,  yielding  to  the  pleasure  of  applause,  she  thought 
no  more  of  the  flight  of  time.  Dawn  was  peeping 
through  the  windows  when  the  party  broke  up. 

"What  kind  people!"  thought  the  debutante,  whom 
they  had  encouraged  and  applauded;  "some  perhaps 
are  a  little  odd,  but  how  much  cordiality  and  warmth 
there  is  among  them!  It  is  catching.  This  is  the  sort 
of  atmosphere  in  which  talent  should  live." 

Being  very  much  fatigued,  she  fell  asleep  upon  the 
jffered  sofa,  half-pleased,  half -frightened,  but  with  two 
prominent  convictions:  one,  that  she  was  beginning  to 
return  to  life;  the  other,  that  she  stood  on  the  edge  of 
a  precipice.  In  her  dreams  old  Rochette  appeared  to 
her,  her  face  like  that  of  an  affable  frog,  her  dress  the 
dress  of  Pierrot,  and  she  croaked  out,  in  a  variety  of 
tones:  "The  stage!  Why  not?  Applauded  every 

1*4*1 


JACQUELINE 

night — it  would  be  glorious!"  Then  she  seemed  in 
her  dream  to  be  falling,  falling  down  from  a  great 
height,  as  one  falls  from  fairyland  into  stern  reality. 
She  opened  her  eyes:  it  was  noon.  Madame  Odinska 
was  waiting  for  her:  she  intended  herself  to  take  her 
to  the  convent,  and  for  that  purpose  had  assumed  the 
imposing  air  of  a  noble  matron. 

Alas!  it  was  in  vain!  Jacqueline,  was  made  to  un- 
derstand that  such  an  infraction  of  the  rules  could 
not  be  overlooked.  To  pass  the  night  without  leave 
out  of  the  convent,  and  not  with  her  own  family, 
was  cause  for  expulsion.  Neither  the  prayers  nor 
the  anger  of  Madame  Odinska  had  any  power  to 
change  the  sentence.  While  the  Mother  Superior 
calmly  pronounced  her  decree,  she  was  taking  the 
measure  of  this  stout  foreigner  who  appeared  in  be- 
half of  Jacqueline,  a  woman  overdressed,  yet  at  the 
same  time  shabby,  who  had  a  far  from  well-bred  or 
aristocratic  air.  "Out  of  consideration  for  Madame 
de  Talbrun,"  she  said,  "the  convent  consents  to  keep 
Mademoiselle  de  Nailles  a  few  days  longer — a  few 
weeks  perhaps,  until  she  can  find  some  other  place  to 
go.  That  is  all  we  can  do  for  her." 

Jacqueline  listened  to  this  sentence  as  she  might 
have  watched  a  game  of  dice  when  her  fate  hung  on 
the  result,  but  she  showed  no  emotion.  "Now,"  she 
thought,  "my  fate  has  been  decided;  respectable  peo- 
ple will  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  me.  I  will  go 
with  the  others,  who,  perhaps,  after  all  are  not  worse, 
and  who  most  certainly  are  more  amusing." 

A  fortnight  after  this,  Madame  de  Nailles,  having 
[249] 


BENTZON 

come  back  to  Paris,  from  some  watering-place,  was 
telling  Marien  that  Jacqueline  had  started  for  Bellagio 
with  Mr.  and  Miss  Sparks,  the  latter  having  taken  a 
notion  that  she  wanted  that  kind  of  chaperon  who  is 
called  a  companion  in  England  and  America. 

"But  they  are  of  the  same  age,"  said  Marien. 

"That  is  just  what  Miss  Sparks  wants.  She  does 
not  wish  to  be  hampered  by  an  elderly  chaperon,  but 
to  be  accompanied,  as  she  would  have  been  by  her 
sister." 

"Jacqueline  will  be  exposed  to  see  strange  things; 
how  could  you  have  consented— 

"Consented?  As  if  she  cared  for  my  consent! 
And  then  she  manages  to  say  such  irritating  things 
as  soon  as  one  attempts  to  blame  her  or  advise  her. 
For  example,  this  is  one  of  them :  '  Don't  you  suppose,' 
she  said  to  me, '  that  every  one  will  take  the  most  agree- 
able chance  that  offers  for  a  visit  to  Italy  ? '  What  do 
you  think  of  that  allusion?  It  closed  my  lips  abso- 
lutely." 

"Perhaps  she  did  not  mean  what  you  think  she 
meant." 

"Do  you  think  so?  And  when  I  warned  her  against 
Madame  Strahlberg,  saying  that  she  might  set  her  a 
very  bad  example,  she  answered:  'I  may  have  had 
worse.'  I  suppose  that  was  not  meant  for  imperti- 
nence either!" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Hubert  Marien,  biting  his  lips 
doubtfully,  "but " 

He  was  silent  a  few  moments,  his  head  drooped  on 
his  breast,  he  was  in  some  painful  reverie. 

[250] 


JACQUELINE 

"Go  on.  What  are  you  thinking  about?"  asked 
Madame  de  Nailles,  impatiently. 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  I  was  only  thinking  that  a 
certain  responsibility  might  rest  on  those  who  have 
made  that  young  girl  what  she  is." 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  said  the  stepmother,  with 
an  impatient  gesture.  "Who  can  do  anything  to 
counteract  a  bad  disposition?  You  don't  deny  that 
hers  is  bad  ?  She  is  a  very  devil  for  pride  and  obsti- 
nacy— she  has  no  affection — she  has  proved  it.  I 
have  no  inclination  to  get  myself  wounded  by  trying 
to  control  her." 

"Then  you  prefer  to  let  her  ruin  herself?" 

"I  should  prefer  not  to  give  the  world  a  chance  to 
talk,  by  coming  to  an  open  rupture  with  her,  which 
would  certainly  be  the  case  if  I  tried  to  contradict  her. 
After  all,  the  Sparks  and  Madame  Odinska  are  not 
yet  put  out  of  the  pale  of  good  society,  and  she  knew 
them  long  ago.  An  early  intimacy  may  be  a  good 
explanation  if  people  blame  her  for  going  too  far— 

"So  be  it,  then;  if  you  are  satisfied  it  is  not  for  me 
to  say  anything,"  replied  Marien,  coldly. 

"Satisfied?  I  am  not  satisfied  with  anything  or 
anybody,"  said  Madame  de  Nailles,  indignantly. 
"How  could  I  be  satisfied;  I  never  have  met  with 
anything  but  ingratitude." 


[251] 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  SAILOR'S  RETURN 

ADAME    D'ARGY  did  not  leave  her 

son  in  ignorance  of  all  the  freaks  and 
follies  of  Jacqueline.  He  knew  every 
particular  of  the  wrong-doings  and 
the  imprudences  of  his  early  friend, 
and  even  the  additions  made  to  them 
by  calumny,  ever  since  the  fit  of  in- 
dependence which,  after  her  father's 
death,  had  led  her  to  throw  off  all  control.  She  told  of 
her  sudden  departure  from  Fresne,  where  she  might 
have  found  so  safe  a  refuge  with  her  friend  and  cousin. 
Then  had  not  her  own  imprudence  and  coquetry  led 
to  a  rupture  with  the  families  of  d'Etaples  and  Ray? 
She  told  of  the  scandalous  intimacy  with  Madame 
Strahlberg;  of  her  expulsion  from  the  convent,  where 
they  had  discovered,  even  before  she  left,  that  she  had 
been  in  the  habit  of  visiting  undesirable  persons;  and 
finally  she  informed  him  that  Jacqueline  had  gone  to 
Italy  with  an  old  Yankee  and  his  daughter — he  being 
a  man,  it  was  said,  who  had  laid  the  foundation  of  his 
colossal  fortune  by  keeping  a  bar-room  in  a  mining- 
camp  in  California.  This  last  was  no  fiction,  the  cut  of 
Mr.  Sparks's  beard  and  his  unpolished  manners  left  no 
doubt  on  the  subject;  and  she  wound  up  by  saying  that 


JACQUELINE 

Madame  d'Avrigny,  whom  no  one  could  accuse  of  ill- 
nature,  had  been  grieved  at  meeting  this  unhappy  girl 
in  very  improper  company,  among  which  she  seemed 
quite  in  her  element,  like  a  fish  in  water. 

It  was  said  also  that  she  was  thinking  of  studying  for 
the  stage  with  La  Rochette — M.  de  Talbrun  had  heard 
it  talked  about  in  the  foyer  of  the  Opera  by  an  old 
Prince  from  some  foreign  country — she  could  not  re- 
member his  name,  but  he  was  praising  Madame  Strahl- 
berg  without  any  reserve  as  the  most  delightful  of 
Parisiennes.  Thereupon  Talbrun  had  naturally  for- 
bidden his  wife  to  have  anything  to  do  with  Jacque- 
line, or  even  to  write  to  her.  Fat  Oscar,  though  he 
was  not  all  that  he  ought  to  be  himself,  had  some  very 
strict  notions  of  propriety.  No  one  was  more  particular 
about  family  relations,  and  really  in  this  case  no  one 
could  blame  him;  but  Giselle  had  been  very  unhappy, 
and  to  the  very  last  had  tried  to  stand  up  for  her  un- 
happy friend.  Having  told  him  all  this,  she  added,  she 
would  say  no  more  on  the  subject. 

Giselle  was  a  model  woman  in  everything,  in  tact,  in 
goodness,  in  good  sense,  and  she  was  very  attentive  to 
the  poor  old  mother  of  Fred,  who  but  for  her  must  have 
died  long  ago  of  loneliness  and  sorrow.  Thereupon 
ensued  the  poor  lady's  usual  lamentations  over  the 
long,  long  absence  of  her  beloved  son;  as  usual,  she 
told  him  she  did  not  think  she  should  live  to  see  him 
back  again;  she  gave  him  a  full  account  of  her  mala- 
dies, caused,  or  at  least  aggravated,  by  her  mortal, 
constant,  incurable  sorrow;  and  she  told  how  Giselle 
had  been  nursing  her  with  all  the  patience  and  devotion 

[253] 


BENTZON 

of  a  Sister  of  Charity.  Through  all  Madame  d'Argy's 
letters  at  this  period  the  angelic  figure  of  Giselle  was 
contrasted  with  the  very  different  one  of  that  young 
and  incorrigible  little  devil  of  a  Jacqueline. 

Fred  at  first  believed  his  mother's  stories  were  all 
exaggeration,  but  the  facts  were  there,  corroborated 
by  the  continued  silence  of  the  person  concerned.  He 
knew  his  mother  to  be  too  good  wilfully  to  blacken  the 
character  of  one  whom  for  years  she  had  hoped  would 
be  her  daughter-in-law,  the  only  child  of  her  best 
friend,  the  early  love  of  her  son.  But  by  degrees  he 
fancied  that  the  love  so  long  living  at  the  bottom  of  his 
heart  was  slowly  dying,  that  it  had  been  extinguished, 
that  nothing  remained  of  it  but  remembrance,  such 
remembrance  as  we  retain  for  dead  things,  a  remem- 
brance without  hope,  whose  weight  added  to  the  home- 
sickness which  with  him  was  increasing  every  day. 

There  was  no  active  service  to  enable  him  to  endure 
exile.  The  heroic  period  of  the  war  had  passed. 
Since  a  treaty  of  peace  had  been  signed  with  China, 
the  fleet,  which  had  distinguished  itself  in  so  many 
small  engagements  and  bombardments,  had  had  noth- 
ing to  do  but  to  mount  guard,  as  it  were,  along  a  con- 
quered coast.  All  round  it  in  the  bay,  where  it  lay  at 
anchor,  rose  mountains  of  strange  shapes,  which 
seemed  to  shut  it  into  a  kind  of  prison.  This  feeling 
of  nothing  to  be  done — of  nothing  likely  to  be  done, 
worked  in  Fred's  head  like  a  nightmare.  The  only 
thing  he  thought  of  was  how  he  could  escape,  when 
could  he  once  more  kiss  the  faded  cheeks  of  his  mother, 
who  often,  when  he  slept  or  lay  wakeful  during  the  long 

[254] 


JACQUELINE 

hours  of  the  siesta,  he  saw  beside  him  in  tears.  Hers 
was  the  only  face  that  he  recalled  distinctly ;  to  her  and 
to  her  only  were  devoted  his  long  reveries  when  on 
watch;  that  time  when  he  formerly  composed  his  love 
verses,  tender  or  angry,  or  full  of  despair.  That  was  all 
over!  A  sort  of  mournful  resignation  had  succeeded 
his  bursts  of  excited  feeling,  his  revolt  against  his 
fate. 

This  was  Fred's  state  of  mind  when  he  received 
orders  to  return  home — orders  as  unexpected  as  every- 
thing seems  to  be  in  the  life  of  a  naval  man.  "I  am 
going  back  to  her!"  he  cried.  Her  was  his  mother,  her 
was  France.  All  the  rest  had  disappeared  as  if  into  a 
fog.  Jacqueline  was  a  phantom  of  the  past;  so  many 
things  had  happened  since  the  old  times  when  he  had 
loved  her.  He  had  crossed  the  Indian  Ocean  and  the 
China  Sea;  he  had  seen  long  stretches  of  interminable 
coast-line;  he  had  beheld  misery,  and  glory,  and  all  the 
painful  scenes  that  wait  on  warfare ;  he  had  seen  pes- 
tilence, and  death  in  every  shape,  and  all  this  had 
wrought  in  him  a  sort  of  stoicism,  the  result  of  long  ac- 
quaintance with  solitude  and  danger.  He  remembered 
his  old  love  as  a  flower  he  had  once  admired  as  he 
passed  it,  a  treacherous  flower,  with  thorns  that  had 
wounded  him.  There  are  flowers  that  are  beneficent, 
and  flowers  that  are  poisonous,  and  the  last  are  some- 
times the  most  beautiful.  They  should  not  be  blamed, 
he  thought;  it  was  their  nature  to  be  hurtful;  but  it 
was  well  to  pass  them  by  and  not  to  gather  them. 

By  the  time  he  had  debarked  Fred  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  let  his  mother  choose  a  wife  for  him,  a  daugh- 

[255] 


THEO  BENTZON 

ter-in-law  suited  to  herself,  who  would  give  her  the  de- 
light of  grandchildren,  who  would  bring  them  up  well, 
and  who  would  not  weary  of  Lizerolles.  But  a  week 
later  the  idea  of  this  kind  of  marriage  had  gone  out  of 
his  head,  and  this  change  of  feeling  was  partly  owing  to 
Giselle.  Giselle  gave  him  a  smile  of  welcome  that  went 
to  his  heart,  for  that  poor  heart,  after  all,  was  only  wait- 
ing for  a  chance  again  to  give  itself  away.  She  was 
with  Madame  d'Argy,  who  had  not  been  well  enough  to 
go  to  the  sea-coast  to  meet  her  son,  and  he  saw  at  the 
same  moment  the  pale  and  aged  face  which  had  visited 
him  at  Tonquin  in  his  dreams,  and  a  fair  face  that  he 
had  never  before  thought  so  beautiful,  more  oval  than 
he  remembered  it,  with  blue  eyes  soft  and  tender,  and 
a  mouth  with  a  sweet  infantine  expression  of  sincerity 
and  goodness.  His  mother  stretched  out  her  trembling 
arms,  gave  a  great  cry,  and  fainted  away. 

" Don't  be  alarmed;  it  is  only  joy,"  said  Giselle,  in 
her  soft  voice. 

And  when  Madame  d'Argy  proved  her  to  be  right  by 
recovering  very  quickly,  overwhelming  her  son  with 
rapid  questions  and  covering  him  with  kisses,  Giselle 
held  out  her  hand  to  him  and  said : 

"I,  too,  am  very  glad  you  have  come  home." 

"Oh!"  cried  the  sick  woman  in  her  excitement, 
"you  must  kiss  your  old  playfellow!" 

Giselle  blushed  a  little,  and  Fred,  more  embarrassed 
than  she,  lightly  touched  with  his  lips  her  pretty  smooth 
hair  which  shone  upon  her  head  like  a  helmet  of  gold. 
Perhaps  it  was  this  new  style  of  hairdressing  which 
made  her  seem  so  much  more  beautiful  than  he  remem- 

[256] 


bered  her,  but  it  seemed  to  him  he  saw  her  for  the  first 
time;  while,  with  the  greatest  eagerness,  notwithstand- 
ing Giselle's  attempts  to  interrupt  her,  Madame  d'Argy 
repeated  to  her  son  all  she  owed  to  that  dear  friend— 
"her  own  daughter,  the  best  of  daughters,  the  most 
patient,  the  most  devoted  of  daughters,  could  not  have 
done  more!  Ah!  if  there  only  could  be  found  another 
one  like  her!" 

Whereupon  the  object  of  all  these  praises  made  her 
escape,  disclaiming  everything. 

Why,  after  this,  should  she  have  hesitated  to  come 
back  to  Lizerolles  every  day,  as  of  late  had  been  her 
custom?  Men  know  so  little  about  taking  care  of  sick 
people.  So  she  came,  and  was  present  at  all  the  re- 
joicings and  all  the  talks  that  followed  Fred's  return. 
She  took  her  part  in  the  discussions  about  Fred's  fu- 
ture. "  Help  me,  my  pet,"  said  Madame  d'Argy,  "  help 
me  to  find  a  wife  for  him :  all  we  ask  is  that  she  should 
be  like  you." 

In  answer  to  which  Fred  declared,  half -laughing  and 
half-seriously,  that  that  was  his  ideal. 

She  did  not  believe  much  of  this,  but,  following  her 
natural  instinct,  she  assumed  the  dangerous  task  of 
consolation,  until,  as  Madame  d'Argy  grew  better,  she 
discontinued  her  daily  visits,  and  Fred,  in  his  turn,  took 
a  habit  of  going  over  to  Fresne  without  being  invited, 
and  spending  there  a  good  deal  of  his  time. 

"Don't  send  me  away.  You  who  are  always  char- 
itable," he  said.  "If  you  only  knew  what  a  pleasure 
a  Parisian  conversation  is  after  coming  from  Ton- 
quin!" 

17  [257] 


THEO  BENTZON 

"But  I  am  so  little  of  a  Parisienne,  or  at  least  what 
you  mean  by  that  term,  and  my  conversation  is  not 
worth  coming  for,"  objected  Giselle. 

In  her  extreme  modesty  she  did  not  realize  how 
much  she  had  gained  in  intellectual  culture.  Women 
left  to  themselves  have  time  to  read,  and  Giselle  had 
done  this  all  the  more  because  she  had  considered  it  a 
duty.  Must  she  not  know  enough  to  instruct  and  su- 
perintend the  education  of  her  son  ?  With  much  strong 
feeling,  yet  with  much  simplicity,  she  spoke  to  Fred  of 
this  great  task,  which  sometimes  frightened  her;  he 
gave  her  his  advice,  and  both  discussed  together  the 
things  that  make  up  a  good  man.  Giselle  brought  up 
frequently  the  subject  of  heredity:  she  named  no  one, 
but  Fred  could  see  that  she  had  a  secret  terror  lest  En- 
guerrand,  who  in  person  was  very  like  his  father,  might 
also  inherit  his  character.  Fears  on  this  subject,  how- 
ever, appeared  unfounded.  There  was  nothing  about 
the  child  that  was  not  good ;  his  tastes  were  those  of  his 
mother.  He  was  passionately  fond  of  Fred,  climbing 
on  his  lap  as  soon  as  the  latter  arrived  and  always 
maintaining  that  he,  too,  wanted  a  pretty  red  ribbon  to 
wear  in  his  buttonhole,  a  ribbon  only  to  be  got  by  sail- 
ing far  away  over  the  seas,  like  sailors. 

"A  sailor!  Heaven  forbid!"  cried  Madame  de 
Talbrun. 

"Oh!  sailors  come  back  again.  He  has  come  back. 
Couldn't  he  take  me  away  with  him  soon?  I  have 
some  stories  about  cabin-boys  who  were  not  much 
older  than  I." 

"Let  us  hope  that  your  friend  Fred  won't  go  away," 
[258] 


JACQUELINE 

said  Giselle.  "But  why  do  you  wish  to  be  a  cabin- 
boy?" 

"Because  I  want  to  go  away  with  him,  if  he  does 
not  stay  here — because  I  like  him,"  answered  Enguer- 
rand  in  a  tone  of  decision. 

Hereupon  Giselle  kissed  her  boy  with  more  than 
usual  tenderness.  He  would  not  take  to  the  hunting- 
field,  she  thought,  the  boulevard,  and  the  corps  de  ballet. 
She  would  not  lose  him.  "But,  oh,  Fred!"  she  cried, 
"it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  he  is  so  fond  of  you! 
You  spoil  him!  You  will  be  a  devoted  father  some  day; 
your  vocation  is  evidently  for  marriage." 

She  thought,  in  thus  speaking,  that  she  was  saying 
what  Madame  d'Argy  would  like  her  to  say. 

"  In  the  matter  of  children,  I  think  your  son  is  enough 
for  me,"  he  said,  one  day;  "and  as  for  marriage,  you 
would  not  believe  how  all  women — I  mean  all  the 
young  girls  among  whom  I  should  have  to  make  a 
choice — are  indifferent  to  me.  My  feeling  almost 
amounts  to  antipathy." 

For  the  first  time  she  ventured  to  say:  "Do  you  still 
care  for  Jacqueline?" 

"About  as  much  as  she  cares  for  me,"  he  answered, 
dryly.  "No,  I  made  a  mistake  once,  and  that  has 
made  me  cautious  for  the  future." 

Another  day  he  said : 

"I  know  now  who  was  the  woman  I  ought  to  have 
loved." 

Giselle  did  not  look  up;  she  was  devoting  all  her 
attention  to  Enguerrand. 

Fred  held  certain  theories  which  he  used  to  talk 
[259] 


BENTZON 

about.  He  believed  in  a  high,  spiritual,  disinterested 
affection  which  would  raise  a  man  above  himself,  mak- 
ing him  more  noble,  inspiring  a  disgust  for  all  ignoble 
pleasures.  The  woman  willing  to  accept  such  homage 
might  do  anything  she  pleased  with  a  heart  that  would 
be  hers  alone.  She  would  be  the  lady  who  presided 
over  his  life,  for  whose  sake  all  good  deeds  and  gener- 
ous actions  would  be  done,  the  idol,  higher  than  a  wife 
or  any  object  of  earthly  passion,  the  White  Angel  whom 
poets  have  sung. 

Giselle  pretended  that  she  did  not  understand  him, 
but  she  was  divinely  happy.  This,  then,  was  the  reward 
of  her  spotless  life !  She  was  the  object  of  a  worship  no 
less  tender  than  respectful.  Fred  spoke  of  the  woman 
he  ought  to  have  loved  as  if  he  meant  to  say,  "I  love 
you;"  he  pressed  his  lips  on  the  auburn  curls  of  little 
Enguerrand  where  his  mother  had  just  kissed  him. 
Day  after  day  he  seemed  more  attracted  to  that  salon 
where,  dressed  with  more  care  than  she  had  ever 
dressed  before,  she  expected  him.  Then  awoke  in  her 
the  wish  to  please,  and  she  was  beautiful  with  that 
beauty  which  is  not  the  insipid  beauty  of  St.  Agnes,  but 
that  which,  superior  to  all  other,  is  seen  when  the  face 
reflects  the  soul.  All  that  winter  there  was  a  new  Gi- 
selle— a  Giselle  who  passed  away  again  among  the 
shadows,  a  Giselle  of  whom  everybody  said,  even  her 
husband,  "M a  joi!  but  she  is  beautiful!"  Oscar  de 
Talbrun,  as  he  made  this  remark,  never  thought  of 
wondering  why  she  was  more  beautiful.  He  was  ready 
to  take  offense  and  was  jealous  by  nature,  but  he  was 
perfectly  sure  of  his  wife,  as  he  had  often  said.  As  to 

[260] 


JACQUELINE 

Fred,  the  idea  of  being  jealous  of  him  would  never  have 
entered  his  mind.  Fred  was  a  relative  and  was  ad- 
mitted to  all  the  privileges  of  a  cousin  or  a  brother; 
besides,  he  was  a  fellow  of  no  consequence  in  any  way. 

While  this  platonic  attachment  grew  stronger  and 
stronger  between  Fred  and  Giselle,  assisted  by  the  inno- 
cent complicity  of  little  Enguerrand,  Jacqueline  was 
discovering  how  hard  it  is  for  a  girl  of  good  birth,  if  she 
is  poor,  to  carry  out  her  plans  of  honest  independence. 
Possibly  she  had  allowed  herself  to  be  too  easily  misled 
by  the  title  of  "companion,"  which,  apparently  more 
cordial  than  that  of  demoiselle  de  compagnie,  means  in 
reality  the  same  thing — a  sort  of  half -servile  position. 

Money  is  a  touchstone  which  influences  all  social 
relations,  especially  when  on  one  side  there  is  a  some- 
what morbid  susceptibility,  and  on  the  other  a  lack 
of  good  breeding  and  education.  The  Sparks,  father 
and  daughter,  Americans  of  the  lower  class,  though 
willing  to  spend  any  number  of  dollars  for  their  own 
pleasure,  expected  that  every  penny  they  disbursed 
should  receive  its  full  equivalent  in  service;  the  place 
therefore  offered  so  gracefully  and  spontaneously  to 
Mademoiselle  de  Nailles  was  far  from  being  a  sinecure. 
Jacqueline  received  her  salary  on  the  same  footing  as 
Justine,  the  Parisian  maid,  received  her  wages,  for, 
although  her  position  was  apparently  one  of  much 
greater  importance  and  consideration  than  Justine's, 
she  was  really  at  the  beck  and  call  of  a  girl  who,  while 
she  called  her  "darling,"  gave  her  orders  and  paid  her 
for  her  services.  Very  often  Miss  Nora  asked  her  to 
sew,  on  the  plea  that  she  was  as  skilful  with  her  fingers 

[261] 


TH^O  BENTZON 

as  a  fairy,  but  in  reality  that  her  employer  might  feel 
the  superiority  of  her  own  position. 

Hitherto  Miss  Nora  had  been  delighted  to  meet  at 
watering-places  a  friend  of  whom  she  could  say  proudly, 
"She  is  a  representative  of  the  old  nobility  of  France" 
(which  was  not  true,  by  the  way,  for  the  title  of  Baron 
borne  by  M.  de  Nailles  went  no  farther  back  than  the 
days  of  Louis  XVIII) ;  and  she  was  still  more  proud  to 
think  that  she  was  now  waited  on  by  this  same  daughter 
of  a  nobleman,  when  her  own  father  had  kept  a  drink- 
ing-saloon.  She  did  not  acknowledge  this  feeling  to 
herself,  and  would  certainly  have  maintained  that  she 
never  had  had  such  an  idea,  but  it  existed  all  the  same, 
and  she  was  under  its  influence,  being  very  vain  and 
rather  foolish.  And,  indeed,  Jacqueline,  would  have 
been  very  willing  to  plan  trimmings  and  alter  finery 
from  morning  to  night  in  her  own  chamber  in  a  hotel, 
exactly  as  Mademoiselle  Justine  did,  if  she  could  by  this 
means  have  escaped  the  special  duties  of  her  difficult 
position,  which  duties  were  to  follow  Miss  Nora  every- 
where, like  her  own  shadow,  to  be  her  confidant  and  to 
act  sometimes  as  her  screen,  or  even  as  her  accomplice, 
in  matters  that  occasionally  involved  risks,  and  were 
never  to  her  liking. 

The  young  American  girl  had  already  said  to  her 
father,  when  he  asked  her  to  give  up  her  search  for  an 
entirely  satisfactory  European  suitor,  which  search  he 
feared  might  drag  on  forever  without  any  results:  "  Oh! 
I  shall  be  sure  to  find  him  at  Bellagio!"  And  she  made 
up  her  mind  that  there  he  was  to  be  sought  and  found 
at  any  price.  Hotel  life  offered  her  opportunities  to 

[262] 


JACQUELINE 

exercise  her  instincts  for  flirtation,  for  there  she  met 
many  specimens  of  men  she  called  chic,  with  a  funny 
little  foreign  accent,  which  seemed  to  put  new  life  into 
the  worn-out  word.  Twenty  times  a  day  she  baited  her 
hook,  and  twenty  times  a  day  some  fish  would  bite,  or 
at  least  nibble,  according  as  he  was  a  fortune-hunter  or 
a  dilettante.  Miss  Nora,  being  incapable  of  knowing 
the  difference,  was  ready  to  capture  good  or  bad,  and 
went  about  dragging  her  slaves  at  her  chariot-wheels. 
Sometimes  she  took  them  rowing,  with  the  Stars 
and  Stripes  floating  over  her  boat,  by  moonlight;  some- 
times she  drove  them  recklessly  in  a  drag  through 
roads  bordered  by  olive-groves  and  vineyards ;  all  these 
expeditions  being  undertaken  under  pretence  of  admir- 
ing the  romantic  scenery.  Her  father  was  not  disposed 
to  interfere  with  what  he  called  "a  little  harmless  dis- 
sipation." He  was  confident  his  daughter's  "com- 
panion" must  know  what  was  proper,  she  being,  as  he 
said,  accustomed  to  good  society.  Were  not  all  Italian 
ladies  attended  by  gentlemen?  Who  could  blame  a 
young  girl  for  amusing  herself  ?  Meantime  Mr.  Sparks 
amused  himself  after  his  own  fashion,  which  was  to  sit 
comfortably,  with  his  feet  up  on  the  piazza  rail  of  the 
hotel,  imbibing  strong  iced  drinks  through  straws.  But 
in  reality  Jacqueline  had  no  power  whatever  to  pre- 
serve propriety,  and  only  compromised  herself  by  her 
associations,  though  her  own  conduct  was  irreproach- 
able. Indeed  she  was  considered  quite  prudish,  and 
the  rest  of  the  mad  crowd  laughed  at  her  for  having  the 
manners  of  a  governess.  In  vain  she  tried  to  say  words 
of  warning  to  Nora;  what  she  said  was  laughed  at  or 

[263] 


TH^O  BENTZON 

resented  in  a  tone  that  told  her  that  a  paid  companion 
had  not  the  right  to  speak  as  frankly  as  a  friend. 

Her  business,  she  was  plainly  told  one  day,  was  to  be 
on  the  spot  in  case  any  impertinent  suitor  should  ven- 
ture too  far  in  a  tete-a-tete,  but  short  of  that  she  was 
not  to  " spoil  sport."  " I  am  not  doing  anything  wrong; 
it  is  allowable  in  America,"  was  Miss  Nora's  regular 
speech  on  such  occasions,  and  Jacqueline  could  not 
dispute  the  double  argument.  Nora's  conduct  was  not 
wicked,  and  in  America  such  things  might  be  allowed. 
Yet  Jacqueline  tried  to  demonstrate  that  a  young  girl 
can  not  pass  unscathed  through  certain  adventures, 
even  if  they  are  innocent  in  the  strict  sense  of  the 
word ;  which  made  Nora  cry  out  that  all  she  said  was 
subterfuge  and  that  she  had  no  patience  with  preju- 
dices. 

In  vain  her  young  companion  pointed  out  to  her 
charge  that  other  Americans  at  Bellagio  seemed  far 
from  approving  her  conduct.  American  ladies  of  a 
very  different  class,  who  were  staying  at  the  hotel,  held 
aloof  from  her,  and  treated  her  with  marked  coldness 
whenever  they  met;  declaring  that  her  manners  would 
be  as  objectionable  in  her  own  country,  in  good  society, 
as  they  were  in  Italy. 

But  Miss  Sparks  was  not  to  be  put  down  by  any 
argument.  "Bah!  they  are  stuck-up  Bostonians.  And 
do  you  know,  Jacqueline,  you  are  getting  very  tire- 
some ?  You  were  faster  yourself  than  I  when  we  were 
the  Blue  Band  at  Treport." 

Nora's  admirers,  sometimes  encouraged,  sometimes 
snubbed,  when  treated  cavalierly  by  this  young  lady, 

[264] 


JACQUELINE 

would  occasionally  pay  court  to  the  demoiselle  de  com- 
pagnie,  who  indeed  was  well  worth  their  pains;  but, 
to  their  surprise,  the  subordinate  received  their  atten- 
tions with  great  coldness.  Having  entered  her  protest 
against  what  was  going  on,  and  having  resisted  the 
contagion  of  example,  it  was  natural  she  should  some- 
what exaggerate  her  prudery,  for  it  is  hard  to  hit  just 
the  right  point  in  such  reaction.  The  result  was,  she 
made  herself  so  disagreeable  to  Miss  Sparks  that  the 
latter  determined  on  getting  rid  of  her  as  tactfully  as 
possible. 

Their  parting  took  place  on  the  day  after  an  excursion 
to  the  Villa  Sommariva,  where  Miss  Sparks  and  her 
little  court  had  behaved  with  their  usual  noise  and 
rudeness.  They  had  gone  there  ostensibly  to  see  the 
pictures,  about  which  none  of  them  cared  anything,  for 
Nora,  wherever  she  was,  never  liked  any  one  to  pay 
attention  to  anybody  or  to  look  at  anything  but  her 
own  noisy,  all-pervading  self. 

It  so  happened  that  at  the  most  riotous  moment  of  the 
picnic  an  old  gentleman  passed  near  the  lively  crowd. 
He  was  quite  inoffensive,  pleasant-mannered,  and 
walked  leaning  on  his  cane,  yet,  had  the  statue  of  the 
Commander  in  Don  Juan  suddenly  appeared  it  could 
not  have  produced  such  consternation  as  his  presence 
did  on  Jacqueline,  when,  after  a  moment's  hesitation, 
he  bowed  to  her.  She  recognized  in  him  a  friend  of 
Madame  d'Argy,  M.  Martel,  whom  she  had  often  met 
at  her  house  in  Paris  and  at  Lizerolles.  When  he  rec- 
ognized her,  she  fancied  she  had  seen  pass  over  his  face 
a  look  of  painful  surprise.  He  would  surely  tell  how  he 

[265] 


THEO  BENTZON 

had  met  her;  what  would  her  old  friends  think  of  her? 
What  would  Fred?  For  some  time  past  she  had 
thought  more  than  ever  before  of  what  Fred  would 
think  of  her.  The  more  she  grew  disgusted  writh  the 
men  she  met,  the  more  she  appreciated  his  good  quali- 
ties, and  the  more  she  thought  of  the  honest,  faithful 
love  he  had  offered  her — love  that  she  had  so  madly 
thrown  away.  She  never  should  meet  such  love  again, 
she  thought.  It  was  the  idea  of  how  Fred  would  blame 
her  when  he  heard  what  she  pictured  to  herself  the  old 
gentleman  would  say  of  her,  that  suddenly  decided  her 
to  leave  Bellagio. 

She  told  Mr.  Sparks  that  evening  that  she  was  not 
strong  enough  for  such  duties  as  were  required  of  a 
companion. 

He  looked  at  her  with  pity  and  annoyance. 
"I  should  have  thought  you  had  more  energy.    How 
do  you  expect  to  live  by  work  if  you  are  not  strong 
enough  for  pleasure?" 

"Pleasure  needs  strength  as  well  as  labor,"  she  said, 
smiling;  "I  would  rather  work  in  the  fields  than  go  on 
amusing  myself  as  I  have  been  doing." 

"My  dear,  you  must  not  be  so  difficult  to  please. 
When  people  have  to  earn  their  bread,  it  is  a  bad  plan. 
I  am  afraid  you  will  find  out  before  long  that  there  are 
harder  ways  of  making  a  living  than  lunching,  dancing, 
walking,  and  driving  from  morning  to  night  in  a  pretty 
country- 
Here  Mr.  Sparks  began  to  laugh  as  he  thought  of  all 
he  had  had  to  do,  without  making  objections,  in  the 
Far  West,  in  the  heroic  days  of  his  youthful  vigor.  He 

[266] 


JACQUELINE 

was  rather  fond  of  recalling  how  he  had  carried  his 
pick  on  his  shoulder  and  his  knife  in  his  belt,  with  two 
Yankee  sayings  in  his  head,  and  little  besides  for  bag- 
gage: "Muscle  and  pluck! — Muscle  and  pluck!"  and 
" Go  ahead  for  ever!"  That  was  the  sort  of  thing  to  be 
done  when  a  man  or  a  woman  had  not  a  cent. 

And  now,  what  was  Jacqueline  to  do  next  ?  She  re- 
flected that  in  a  very  short  time  she  had  attempted 
many  things.  It  seemed  to  her  that  all  she  could  do 
now  was  to  follow  the  advice  which,  when  first  given 
her  by  Madame  Strahlberg,  had  frightened  her,  though 
she  had  found  it  so  attractive.  She  would  study 
with  Madame  Rochette;  she  would  go  to  the  Milan 
Conservatory,  and  as  soon  as  she  came  of  age  she 
would  go  upon  the  stage,  under  a  feigned  name, 
of  course,  and  in  a  foreign  country.  She  would 
prove  to  the  world,  she  said  to  herself,  that  the  career 
of  an  actress  is  compatible  with  self-respect.  This 
resolve  that  she  would  never  be  found  wanting  in  self- 
respect  held  a  prominent  place  in  all  her  plans,  as  she 
began  to  understand  better  those  dangers  in  life  which 
are  for  the  most  part  unknown  to  young  girls  born 
in  her  social  position.  Jacqueline's  character,  far  from 
being  injured  by  her  trials  and  experiences,  had  gained 
in  strength.  She  grew  firmer  as  she  gained  in  know- 
ledge. Never  had  she  been  so  worthy  of  regard  and 
interest  as  at  the  very  time  when  her  friends  were 
saying  sadly  to  themselves,  "She  is  going  to  the  bad," 
and  when,  from  all  appearances,  they  were  right  in 
this  conclusion. 

[267] 


CHAPTER  XVII 

TWIN  DEVILS 

[ACQUELINE  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  she  had  better  seriously  consult 
Madame  Strahlberg.  She  therefore 
stopped  at  Monaco,  where  this  friend, 
whom  she  intended  to  honor  with  the 
strange  office  of  Mentor,  was  passing 
the  winter  in  a  little  villa  in  the  Con- 
damine  quarter — a  cottage  surrounded 
by  roses  and  laurel-bushes,  painted  in  soft  colors  and 
looking  like  a  plaything. 

Madame  Strahlberg  had  already  urged  Jacqueline 
to  come  and  make  acquaintance  with  her  "paradise," 
without  giving  her  any  hint  of  the  delights  of  that  para- 
dise, from  which  that  of  gambling  was  not  excluded,  for 
Madame  Strahlberg  was  eager  for  any  kind  of  excite- 
ment. Roulette  now  occupied  with  her  a  large  part  of 
every  night — indeed,  her  nights  had  been  rarely  given 
to  slumber,  for  her  creed  was  that  morning  is  the  time 
for  sleep,  for  which  reason  they  never  took  breakfast  in 
the  pink  villa,  but  tea,  cakes,  and  confectionery  were 
eaten  instead  at  all  hours  until  the  evening.  Thus  it 
happened  very  often  that  they  had  no  dinner,  and 
guests  had  to  accommodate  themselves  to  the  strange 
ways  of  the  family.  Jacqueline,  however,  did  not  stay 
long  enough  to  know  much  of  those  ways. 

[268] 


JACQUELINE 

She  arrived,  poor  thing,  with  weary  wing,  like  some 
bird,  who,  escaping  from  the  fowler's  net,  where  it  has 
left  its  feathers,  flies  straight  to  the  spot  where  a  sports- 
man lies  ready  to  shoot  it.  She  was  received  with  the 
same  cries  of  joy,  the  same  kisses,  the  same  demonstra- 
tions of  affection,  as  those  which,  the  summer  before, 
had  welcomed  her  to  the  Rue  de  Naples.  They  told  her 
she  could  sleep  on  a  sofa,  exactly  like  the  one  on  which 
she  had  passed  that  terrible  night  which  had  resulted 
in  her  expulsion  from  the  convent;  and  it  was  decided 
that  she  must  stay  several  days,  at  least,  before  she  went 
on  to  Paris,  to  begin  the  life  of  hard  study  and  coura- 
geous work  which  would  make  of  her  a  great  singer. 

Tired  ? — No,  she  was  hardly  tired  at  all.  The  jour- 
ney over  the  enchanting  road  of  the  Corniche  had 
awakened  in  her  a  fervor  of  admiration  which  prevented 
her  from  feeling  any  bodily  needs,  and  now  she  seemed 
to  have  reached  fairyland,  where  the  verdure  of  the 
tropics  was  like  the  hanging  gardens  of  Babylon,  only 
those  had  never  had  a  mirror  to  reflect  back  their  an- 
cient, far-famed  splendor,  like  that  before  her  eyes,  as 
she  looked  down  upon  the  Mediterranean,  with  the  sun 
setting  in  the  west  in  a  sky  all  crimson  and  gold. 

Notwithstanding  the  disorder  of  her  travelling-dress, 
Jacqueline  allowed  her  friend  to  take  her  straight  from 
the  railway  station  to  the  Terrace  of  Monte  Carlo.  She 
fell  into  ecstasies  at  sight  of  the  African  cacti,  the  cen- 
tury plants,  and  the  fig-trees  of  Barbary,  covering  the 
low  walls  whence  they  looked  down  into  the  water;  at 
the  fragrance  of  the  evergreens  that  surrounded  the 
beautiful  palace  with  its  balustrades,  dedicated  to  all 

[269] 


THEO  BENTZON 

the  worst  passions  of  the  human  race;  with  the  sharp 
rocky  outline  of  Turbia ;  with  an  almost  invisible  speck 
on  the  horizon  which  they  said  was  Corsica;  with 
everything,  which,  whether  mirage  or  reality,  lifted  her 
out  of  herself,  and  plunged  her  into  that  state  of  excited 
happiness  and  indescribable  sense  of  bodily  comfort, 
which  exterior  impressions  so  easily  produce  upon  the 
young. 

After  exhausting  her  vocabulary  in  exclamations  and 
in  questions,  she  stood  silent,  watching  the  sun  as  it 
sank  beneath  the  waters,  thinking  that  life  is  well 
worth  living  if  it  can  give  us  such  glorious  spectacles, 
notwithstanding  all  the  difficulties  that  may  have  to  be 
passed  through.  Several  minutes  elapsed  before  she 
turned  her  radiant  face  and  dazzled  eyes  toward  Wan- 
da, or  rather  toward  the  spot  where  Wanda  had  been 
standing  beside  her.  "Oh!  my  dear — how  beautiful!" 
she  murmured  with  a  long  sigh. 

The  sigh  was  echoed  by  a  man,  who  for  a  few  mo- 
ments had  looked  at  her  with  as  much  admiration  as 
she  had  looked  at  the  landscape.  He  answered  her  by 
saying,  in  a  low  voice,  the  tones  of  which  made  her 
tremble  from  head  to  foot : 

"Jacqueline!" 

"Monsieur  de  Cymier!" 

The  words  slipped  through  her  lips  as  they  suddenly 
turned  pale.  She  had  an  instinctive,  sudden  persua- 
sion that  she  had  been  led  into  a  snare.  If  not,  why  was 
Madame  Strahlberg  now  absorbed  in  conversation  with 
three  other  persons  at  some  little  distance. 

"Forgive  me — you  did  not  expect  to  see  me — you 
[270] 


JACQUELINE 

seem  quite  startled,"  said  the  young  man,  drawing  near 
her.  With  an  effort  she  commanded  herself  and  looked 
full  in  his  face.  Her  anger  rose.  She  had  seen  the 
same  look  in  the  ugly,  brutal  face  of  Oscar  de  Talbrun. 
From  the  Terrace  of  Monte  Carlo  her  memory  flew 
back  to  a  country  road  in  Normandy,  and  she  clenched 
her  hand  round  an  imaginary  riding-whip.  She  needed 
coolness  and  she  needed  courage.  They  came  as  if  by 
miracle. 

"It  is  certain,  Monsieur,"  she  answered,  slowly, 
"that  I  did  not  expect  to  meet  you  here." 

"Chance  has  had  pity  on  me,"  he  replied,  bowing 
low,  as  she  had  set  him  the  example  of  ceremony. 

But  he  had  no  idea  of  losing  time  in  commonplace 
remarks — he  wished  to  take  up  their  intimacy  on  the 
terms  it  had  been  formerly,  to  resume  the  romance  he 
himself  had  interrupted. 

"I  knew,"  he  said  in  the  same  low  voice,  full  of  per- 
suasion, which  gave  especial  meaning  to  his  words,  "I 
knew  that,  after  all,  we  should  meet  again." 

"I  did  not  expect  it,"  said  Jacqueline,  haughtily. 

"Because  you  do  not  believe  in  the  magnetism  of  a 
fixed  desire." 

"No,  I  do  not  believe  any  such  thing,  when,  op- 
posed to  such  a  desire,  there  is  a  strong,  firm  will,"  said 
Jacqueline,  her  eyes  burning. 

"Ah!"  he  murmured,  and  he  might  have  been  sup- 
posed to  be  really  moved,  so  much  his  look  changed, 
"do  not  abuse  your  power  over  me — do  not  make  me 
wretched ;  if  you  could  only  understand— 

She  made  a  swift  movement  to  rejoin  Madame  Strahl- 
[271] 


BENTZON 

berg,  but  that  lady  was  already  coming  toward  them 
with  the  same  careless  ease  with  which  she  had  left 
them  together. 

"Well!  you  have  each  found  an  old  acquaintance," 
she  said,  gayly.  "I  beg  your  pardon,  my  loveliest,  but 
I  had  to  speak  to  some  old  friends,  and  ask  them  to 
join  us  to-morrow  evening.  We  shall  sup  at  the  restau- 
rant of  the  Grand  Hotel,  after  the  opera — for,  I  did  not 
tell  you  before,  you  will  have  the  good  luck  to  hear 
Patti.  Monsieur  de  Cymier,  we  shall  expect  you.  Au 
revoir" 

He  had  been  on  the  point  of  asking  leave  to  walk 
home  with  them.  But  there  was  something  in  Jacque- 
line's look,  and  in  her  stubborn  silence,  that  deterred 
him.  He  thought  it  best  to  leave  a  skilful  advocate  to 
plead  his  cause  before  he  continued  a  conversation 
which  had  not  begun  satisfactorily.  Not  that  Gerard 
de  Cymier  was  discouraged  by  the  behavior  of  Jacque- 
line. He  had  expected  her  to  be  angry  at  his  defection, 
and  that  she  would  make  him  pay  for  it;  but  a  little 
skill  on  his  part,  and  a  little  credulity  on  hers,  backed 
by  the  intervention  of  a  third  party,  might  set  things 
right. 

One  moment  he  lingered  to  look  at  her,  admiring  her 
as  she  stood  in  the  light  of  the  dying  sun,  as  beautiful 
in  her  plain  dress  and  her  indignant  paleness,  while  she 
looked  far  out  to  sea,  that  she  might  not  be  obliged  to 
look  at  him,  as  she  had  been  when  he  had  known  her 
in  prosperity. 

At  that  moment  he  knew  she  hated  him,  but  it  would 
be  an  additional  delight  to  overcome  that  feeling. 

[272] 


JACQUELINE 

The  two  women,  when  he  left  them,  continued  walk- 
ing on  the  terrace  side  by  side,  without  a  word.  Wan- 
da watched  her  companion  out  of  the  corners  of  her 
eyes,  and  hummed  an  air  to  herself  to  break  the  si- 
lence. She  saw  a  storm  gathering  under  Jacqueline's 
black  eyebrows,  and  knew  that  sharp  arrows  were 
likely  to  shoot  forth  from  those  lips  which  several  times 
had  opened,  though  not  a  word  had  been  uttered, 
probably  through  fear  of  saying  too  little  or  too  much. 

At  last  she  made  some  trifling  comment  on  the  view, 
explaining  something  about  pigeon-shooting. 

"Wanda,"  interrupted  Jacqueline,  "did  you  not 
know  what  happened  once?" 

"Happened,  how?  About  what?"  asked  Madame 
Strahlberg,  with  an  air  of  innocence. 

"I  am  speaking  of  the  way  Monsieur  de  Cymier 
treated  me." 

"Bah!  He  was  in  love  with  you.  Who  didn't  know 
it  ?  Every  one  could  see  that.  It  was  all  the  more  rea- 
son why  you  should  have  been  glad  to  meet  him." 

"He  did  not  act  as  if  he  were  much  in  love,"  said 
Jacqueline. 

"Because  he  went  away  when  your  family  thought  he 
was  about  to  make  his  formal  proposal  ?  Not  all  men 
are  marrying  men,  my  dear,  nor  have  all  women  that 
vocation.  Men  fall  in  love  all  the  same." 

"Do  you  think,  then,  that  when  a  man  knows  he  has 
no  intention  of  marrying  he  should  pay  court  to  a 
young  girl  ?  I  think  I  told  you  at  the  time  that  he  had 
paid  court  to  me,  and  that  he  afterward — how  shall  I 
say  it? — basely  deserted  me." 
18  [273] 


THEO  BENTZON 

The  sharp  and  thrilling  tone  in  which  Jacqueline 
said  this  amused  Madame  Strahlberg. 

"What  big  words,  my  dear!  No,  I  don't  remember 
that  you  ever  said  anything  of  the  sort  to  me  before. 
But  you  are  wrong.  As  we  grow  older  we  lay  aside 
harsh  judgments  and  sharp  words.  They  do  no  good. 
In  your  place  I  should  be  touched  by  the  thought  that 
a  man  so  charming  had  been  faithful  to  me." 

"Faithful!"  cried  Jacqueline,  her  dark  eyes  flashing 
into  the  cat-like  eyes  of  Madame  Strahlberg. 

Wanda  looked  down,  and  fastened  a  ribbon  at  her 
waist. 

"Ever  since  we  have  been  here,"  she  said,  "he  has 
been  talking  of  you." 

"Really— for  how  long?" 

"  Oh,  if  you  must  know,  for  the  last  two  weeks." 

"It  is  just  a  fortnight  since  you  wrote  and  asked 
me  to  stay  with  you,"  said  Jacqueline,  coldly  and  re- 
proachfully. 

"Oh,  well — what's  the  harm?  Suppose  I  did  think 
your  presence  would  increase  the  attractions  of  Mon- 
aco?" 

"Why  did  you  not  tell  me?" 

"Because  I  never  write  a  word  more  than  is  neces- 
sary; you  know  how  lazy  I  am.  And  also  because,  I 
may  as  well  confess,  it  might  have  scared  you  off,  you 
are  so  sensitive." 

"Then  you  meant  to  take  me  by  surprise?"  said 
Jacqueline,  in  the  same  tone. 

" Oh!  my  dear,  why  do  you  try  to  quarrel  with  me  ?" 
replied  Madame  Strahlberg,  stopping  suddenly  and 

[274] 


JACQUELINE 

looking  at  her  through  her  eyeglass.  "We  may  as  well 
understand  what  you  mean  by  a  free  and  independent 
life." 

And  thereupon  ensued  an  address  to  which  Jacque- 
line listened,  leaning  one  hand  on  a  balustrade  of  that 
enchanted  garden,  while  the  voice  of  the  serpent,  as 
she  thought,  was  ringing  in  her  ears.  Her  limbs  shook 
under  her — her  brain  reeled.  All  her  hopes  of  success 
as  a  singer  on  the  stage  Madame  Strahlberg  swept 
away,  as  not  worth  a  thought.  She  told  her  that,  in 
her  position,  had  she  meant  to  be  too  scrupulous,  she 
should  have  stayed  in  the  convent.  Everything  to 
Jacqueline  seemed  to  dance  before  her  eyes.  The  eve- 
ning closed  around  them,  the  light  died  out,  the  land- 
scape, like  her  life,  had  lost  its  glow.  She  uttered  a 
brief  prayer  for  help,  such  a  prayer  as  she  had  prayed 
in  infancy.  She  whispered  it  in  terror,  like  a  cry  in  ex- 
treme danger.  She  was  more  frightened  by  Wanda's 
wicked  words  than  she  had  been  by  M.  de  Talbrun  or 
by  M.  de  Cymier.  She  ceased  to  know  what  she  was 
saying  till  the  last  words,  "You  have  good  sense  and 
you  will  think  about  it,"  met  her  ear. 

Jacqueline  said  not  a  word. 

Wanda  took  her  arm.  "You  may  be  sure,"  she 
said,  "that  I  am  thinking  only  of  your  good.  Come! 
WTould  you  like  to  go  into  the  Casino  and  look  at  the 
pictures  ?  No,  you  are  tired  ?  You  can  see  them  some 
evening.  The  ballroom  holds  a  thousand  persons. 
Yes,  if  you  prefer,  we  will  go  home.  You  can  take  a 
nap  till  dinner-time.  We  shall  dine  at  eight  o'clock." 

Conversation  languished  till  they  reached  the  Villa 
[275] 


TH^O  BENTZON 

Rosa.  Notwithstanding  Jacqueline's  efforts  to  appear 
natural,  her  own  voice  rang  in  her  ears  in  tones  quite 
new  to  her,  a  laugh  that  she  uttered  without  any  occa- 
sion, and  which  came  near  resulting  in  hysterics.  Yet 
she  had  power  enough  over  her  nerves  to  notice  the 
surroundings  as  she  entered  the  house.  At  the  door  of 
the  room  in  which  she  was  to  sleep,  and  which  was  on 
the  first  story,  Madame  Strahlberg  kissed  her  with  one 
of  those  equivocal  smiles  which  so  long  had  imposed 
on  her  simplicity. 

"Till  eight  o'clock,  then." 

"Till  eight  o'clock,"  repeated  Jacqueline,  passively. 

But  when  eight  o'clock  came  she  sent  word  that 
she  had  a  severe  headache,  and  would  try  to  sleep 
it  off. 

Suppose,  she  thought,  M.  de  Cymier  should  have 
been  asked  to  dinner;  suppose  she  should  be  placed 
next  to  him  at  table?  Anything  in  that  house  seemed 
possible  now. 

They  brought  her  a  cup  of  tea.  Up  to  a  late  hour 
she  heard  a  confused  noise  of  music  and  laughter.  She 
did  not  try  to  sleep.  All  her  faculties  were  on  the 
alert,  like  those  of  a  prisoner  who  is  thinking  of 
escape.  She  knew  what  time  the  night  trains  left  the 
station,  and,  abandoning  her  trunk  and  everything  else 
that  she  had  with  her,  she  furtively— but  ready,  if  need 
were,  to  fight  for  her  liberty  with  the  strength  of  des- 
peration—  slipped  down  the  broad  stairs  over  their 
thick  carpet  and  pushed  open  a  little  glass  door.  Thank 
heaven!  people  came  in  and  went  out  of  that  house  as 
if  it  had  been  a  mill.  No  one  discovered  her  flight  till 

[276] 


JACQUELINE 

the  next  morning,  when  she  was  far  on  her  way  to  Paris 
in  an  express  train. 

Modeste,  quite  unprepared  for  her  young  mistress's 
arrival,  was  amazed  to  see  her  drop  down  upon  her, 
feverish  and  excited,  like  some  poor  hunted  animal, 
with  strength  exhausted.  Jacqueline  flung  herself  into 
her  nurse's  arms  as  she  used  to  do  when,  as  a  little  girl, 
she  was  in  what  she  fancied  some  great  trouble,  and  she 
cried:  "Oh,  take  me  in — pray  take  me  in!  Keep  me 
safe!  Hide  me!"  And  then  she  told  Modeste  every- 
thing, speaking  rapidly  and  disconnectedly,  thankful 
to  have  some  one  to  whom  she  could  open  her  heart. 
In  default  of  Modeste  she  would  have  spoken  to  stone 
walls. 

"And  what  will  you  do  now,  my  poor  darling?" 
asked  the  old  nurse,  as  soon  as  she  understood  that  her 
young  lady  had  come  back  to  her,  "with  weary  foot 
and  broken  wing,"  from  what  she  had  assured  her  on 
her  departure  would  be  a  brilliant  excursion. 

"Oh!  I  don't  know,"  answered  Jacqueline,  in  utter 
discouragement;  "I  am  too  worn  out  to  think  or  to  do 
anything.  Let  me  rest;  that  is  all." 

"Why  don't  you  go  to  see  your  stepmother?" 

"My  stepmother?  Oh,  no!  She  is  at  the  bottom 
of  all  that  has  happened  to  me." 

"Or  Madame  d'Argy?  Or  Madame  de  Talbrun? 
Madame  de  Talbrun  is  the  one  who  would  give  you 
good  advice." 

Jacqueline  shook  her  head  with  a  sad  smile. 

"Let  me  stay  here.  Don't  you  remember — years 
ago — but  it  seems  like  yesterday — all  the  rest  is  like  a 

[277] 


BENTZON 

nightmare — how  I  used  to  hide  myself  under  your  pet- 
ticoats, and  you  would  say,  going  on  with  your  knit- 
ting: 'You  see  she  is  not  here;  I  can't  think  where  she 
can  be.'  Hide  me  now  just  like  that,  dear  old  Modeste. 
Only  hide  me." 

And  Modeste,  full  of  heartfelt  pity,  promised  to  hide 
her  "dear  child"  from  every  one,  which  promise,  how- 
ever, did  not  prevent  her,  for  she  was  very  self-willed, 
from  going,  without  Jacqueline's  knowledge,  to  see  Ma- 
dame de  Talbrun  and  tell  her  all  that  had  taken  place. 
She  was  hurt  and  amazed  at  her  reception  by  Giselle, 
and  at  her  saying,  without  any  offer  of  help  or  words  of 
sympathy,  "She  has  only  reaped  what  she  has  sown." 
Giselle  would  have  been  more  than  woman  had  not 
Fred,  and  a  remembrance  of  the  wrongs  that  he  had 
suffered  through  Jacqueline,  now  stood  between  them. 
For  months  he  had  been  the  prime  object  in  her  life; 
her  mission  of  comforter  had  brought  her  the  greatest 
happiness  she  had  ever  known.  She  tried  to  make  him 
turn  his  attention  to  some  serious  work  in  life;  she 
wanted  to  keep  him  at  home,  for  his  mother's  sake,  she 
thought;  she  fancied  she  had  inspired  him  with  a  taste 
for  home  life.  If  she  had  examined  herself  she  might 
have  discovered  that  the  task  she  had  undertaken  of 
doing  good  to  this  young  man  was  not  wholly  for  his 
sake  but  partly  for  her  owrn.  She  wanted  to  see  him 
nearly  every  day  and  to  occupy  a  place  in  his  life  ever 
larger  and  larger.  But  for  some  time  past  the  con- 
scientious Giselle  had  neglected  the  duty  of  strict  self- 
examination.  She  was  thankful  to  be  happy —and 
though  Fred  was  a  man  little  given  to  self-flattery  in 

[278] 


JACQUELINE 

his  relations  with  women,  he  could  not  but  be  pleased 
at  the  change  produced  in  her  by  her  intercourse  with 
him. 

But  while  Fred  and  Giselle  considered  themselves 
as  two  friends  trying  to  console  each  other,  people  had 
begun  to  talk  about  them.  Even  Madame  d'Argy 
asked  herself  whether  her  son  might  not  have  escaped 
from  the  cruel  claws  of  a  young  coquette  of  the  new 
school  to  fall  into  a  worse  scrape  with  a  married  wom- 
an. She  imagined  what  might  happen  if  the  jealousy 
of  "that  wild  boar  of  an  Oscar  de  Talbrun"  were 
aroused ;  the  dangers,  far  more  terrible  than  the  perils  of 
the  sea,  that  might  in  such  a  case  await  her  only  son,  the 
child  for  whose  safety  her  mother-love  caused  her  to  suf- 
fer perpetual  torments.  "O  mothers!  mothers!"  she 
often  said  to  herself,  "how  much  they  are  to  be  pitied. 
And  they  are  very  blind.  If  Fred  must  get  into  danger 
and  difficulty  for  any  woman,  it  should  not  have  been 
for  Giselle  de  Talbrun." 


[279] 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

'AN  AFFAIR  OF  HONOR" 

MEETING  took  place  yesterday  at  Vdsinet 
between  the  Vicomte  de  Cymier,  secretary  of 
Embassy  at  Vienna,  and  M.  Fr&le'ric  d'Argy, 
ensign  in  the  navy.  The  parties  fought  with 
swords.  The  seconds  of  M.  de  Cymier  were 
the  Prince  de  Moelk  and  M.  d'Etaples,  cap- 
tain in  the  — th  Hussars;  those  of  M.  d'Argy 
were  M.  Edmond  Lavour,  of  the  navy,  and 
Hubert  Marien,  the  painter.  M.  d'Argy  was 
wounded  in  the  right  arm,  and  for  the  present  the  affair  is  termi- 
nated, but  it  is  said  it  will  be  resumed  on  M.  d'Argy 's  recovery, 
although  this  seems  hardly  probable,  considering  the  very  slight 
cause  of  the  quarrel — an  altercation  at  the  Cercle  de  la  Rue  Boissy 
d'Anglas,  which  took  place  over  the  card-table. 

Such  was  the  announcement  in  a  daily  paper  that 
met  the  eyes  of  Jacqueline,  as  she  lay  hidden  in  Mo- 
deste's  lodging,  like  a  fawn  in  its  covert,  her  eyes  and 
ears  on  the  alert,  watching  for  the  least  sign  of  alarm, 
in  fear  and  trembling.  She  expected  something,  she 
knew  not  what;  she  felt  that  her  sad  adventure  at 
Monaco  could  not  fail  to  have  its  epilogue;  but  this 
was  one  of  which  she  never  had  dreamed. 

"Modeste,  give  me  my  hat!  Get  me  a  carriage! 
Quick!  Oh,  my  God,  it  is  my  fault! — I  have  killed 
him!" 


JACQUELINE 

These  incoherent  cries  came  from  her  lips  while 
Modeste,  in  alarm,  picked  up  the  newspaper  and  ad- 
justed her  silver  spectacles  upon  her  nose  to  read  the 
paragraph.  "Monsieur  Fred  wounded!  Holy  Virgin! 
His  poor  mother!  That  is  a  new  trouble  fallen  on  her, 
to  be  sure.  But  this  quarrel  had  nothing  to  do  with 
you,  my  pet;  you  see  they  say  it  was  about  cards." 

And  folding  up  the  Figaro,  while  Jacqueline  in  all 
haste  was  wrapping  her  head  in  a  veil,  Modeste,  with 
the  best  intentions,  went  on  to  say:  "Nobody  ever  dies 
of  a  sword-thrust  in  the  arm." 

"But  you  see  it  says  that  they  are  going  to  fight  all 
over  again — don't  you  understand  ?  You  are  so  stupid ! 
What  could  they  have  had  to  quarrel  about  but  me? 
O  God!  Thou  art  just!  This  is  indeed  punishment 
— too  much  punishment  for  me!" 

So  saying,  she  ran  down  the  many  stairs  that  led  up 
to  Modeste' s  little  lodging  in  the  roof,  her  feet  hardly 
touching  them  as  she  ran,  while  Modeste  followed  her 
more  slowly,  crying:  "Wait  for  me!  Wait  for  me, 
Mademoiselle!" 

Calling  a  fiacre,  Jacqueline,  almost  roughly,  pushed 
the  old  woman  into  it,  and  gave  the  coachman  the 
address  of  Madame  d'Argy,  having,  in  her  excitement, 
first  given  him  that  of  their  old  house  in  the  Pare 
Monceau,  so  much  was  she  possessed  by  the  idea  that 
this  was  a  repetition  of  that  dreadful  day,  when  with 
Modeste,  just  as  now,  she  went  to  meet  an  irreparable 
loss.  She  seemed  to  see  before  her  her  dead  father — 
he  looked  like  Fred,  and  now,  as  before,  Marien  had 
his  part  in  the  tragedy.  Could  he  not  have  prevented 

[281] 


BENTZON 

the  duel?  Could  he  not  have  done  something  to  pre- 
vent Fred  from  exposing  himself?  The  wound  might 
be  no  worse  than  it  was  said  to  be  in  the  newspaper — 
but  then  a  second  meeting  was  to  take  place.  No ! —  it 
should  not,  she  would  stop  it  at  any  price ! 

And  yet,  as. the  coach  drew  nearer  to  the  Rue  de 
Varenne,  where  Madame  d'Argy  had  her  winter  resi- 
dence, a  little  calm,  a  little  sense  returned  to  Jacque- 
line. She  did  not  see  how  she  could  dare  to  enter  that 
house,  where  probably  they  cursed  her  very  name. 
She  would  wait  in  the  street  with  the  carriage-blinds 
pulled  down,  and  Modeste  should  go  in  and  ask  for  in- 
formation. Five  minutes  passed — ten  minutes  passed 
— they  seemed  ages.  How  slow  Modeste  was,  slow  as 
a  tortoise!  How  could  she  leave  her  there  when  she 
knew  she  was  so  anxious?  What  could  she  be  doing? 
All  she  had  to  do  was  to  ask  news  of  M.  Fred  in  just 
two  words! 

At  last,  Jacqueline  could  bear  suspense  no  longer. 
She  opened  the  coach-door  and  jumped  out  on  the 
pavement.  Just  at  that  moment  Modeste  appeared, 
brandishing  the  umbrella  that  she  carried  instead  of  a 
stick,  in  a  manner  that  meant  something.  It  might  be 
bad  news,  she  would  know  in  a  moment ;  anything  was 
better  than  suspense.  She  sprang  forward. 

"What  did  they  say,  Modeste?  Speak! — Why  have 
you  been  such  a  tune?" 

"Because  the  servants  had  something  else  to  do  than 
to  attend  to  me.  I  wasn't  the  only  person  there — they 
were  writing  in  a  register.  Get  back  into  the  carriage, 
Mademoiselle,  or  somebody  will  see  you — There  are 

[282] 


JACQUELINE 

lots  of  people  there  who  know  you — Monsieur  and 
Madame  d'Etaples " 

"What  do  I  care?— The  truth!  Tell  me  the 
truth " 

"But  didn't  you  understand  my  signals?  He  is  go- 
ing on  well.  It  was  only  a  scratch — Ah!  dame!  that's 
only  my  way  of  talking.  He  will  be  laid  up  for  a  fort- 
night. The  doctor  was  there — he  has  some  fever,  but 
he  is  not  in  any  danger." 

"Oh!  what  a  blessing!  Kiss  me,  Modeste.  We 
have  a  fortnight  in  which  we  may  interfere — But  how — 
Oh,  how  ? — Ah !  there  is  Giselle !  We  will  go  to  Giselle 
at  once!" 

And  the  fiacre  was  ordered  to  go  as  fast  as  possible  to 
the  Rue  Barbet-de-Jouy.  This  time  Jacqueline  herself 
spoke  to  the  concierge. 

"Madame  la  Comtesse  is  out." 

"But  she  never  goes  out  at  this  hour.  I  wish  to  see 
her  on  important  business.  I  must  see  her." 

And  Jacqueline  passed  the  concierge,  only  to  en- 
counter another  refusal  from  a  footman,  who  insisted 
that  Madame  la  Comtesse  was  at  home  to  no  one. 

"  But  me,  she  will  see  me.  Go  and  tell  her  it  is  Made- 
moiselle de  Nailles." 

Moved  by  her  persistence,  the  footman  went  in  to 
inquire,  and  came  back  immediately  with  the  an- 
swer: 

"Madame  la  Comtesse  can  not  see  Mademoiselle." 

"Ah!"  thought  Jacqueline,  "she,  too,  throws  me  off, 
and  it  is  natural.  I  have  no  friends  left.  No  one  will 
tell  me  anything! — I  think  it  will  drive  me  mad?" 

[283] 


THEO  BENTZON 

She  was  half -mad  already.  She  stopped  at  a  news- 
stand and  bought  all  the  evening  journals;  then,  up  in 
her  garret,  in  her  poor  little  nest  under  the  roof — which, 
as  she  felt  bitterly,  was  her  only  refuge,  she  began  to 
look  over  those  printed  papers  in  which  she  might  pos- 
sibly find  out  the  true  cause  of  the  duel.  Nearly  all 
related  the  event  in  almost  the  exact  terms  used  by  the 
Figaro.  Ah ! — here  was  a  different  one !  A  reporter  who 
knew  something  more  added,  in  Gil  Bias:  "We  have 
stated  the  cause  of  the  dispute  as  it  has  been  given  to 
the  public,  but  in  affairs  of  this  nature  more  than  in  any 
others,  it  is  safe  to  remember  the  old  proverb:  'Look 
for  the  woman.'  The  woman  could  doubtless  have 
been  found  enjoying  herself  on  the  sunny  shores  of  the 
Mediterranean,  while  men  were  drawing  swords  in  her 
defense." 

Jacqueline  went  on  looking  through  the  newspapers, 
crumpling  up  the  sheets  as  she  laid  them  down.  The 
last  she  opened  had  the  reputation  of  being  a  repository 
of  scandals,  never  to  be  depended  on,  as  she  well  knew. 
Several  times  it  had  come  to  her  hand  and  she  had  not 
opened  it,  remembering  what  her  father  had  always 
said  of  its  reputation.  But  where  would  she  be  more 
likely  to  find  what  she  wanted  than  in  the  columns  of  a 
journal  whose  reporters  listened  behind  doors  and 
peeped  through  keyholes?  Under  the  heading  of  Les 
Dessous  Parisiens,  she  read  on  the  first  page : 

"Two  hens  lived  in  peace;  a  cock  came 

And  strife  soon  succeeded  to  joy; 
E'en  as  love,  they  say,  kindled  the  flame 
That  destroyed  the  proud  city  of  Troy. 

[284] 


JACQUELINE 

"This  quarrel  was  the  outcome  of  a  violent  rupture  between 
the  two  hens  in  question,  ending  in  the  flight  of  one  of  them,  a 
young  and  tender  pullet,  whose  voice  we  trust  soon  to  hear  warbling 
on  the  boards  at  one  of  our  theatres.  This  was  the  subject  of 
conversation  in  a  low  voice  at  the  Cercle,  at  the  hour  when  it  is 
customary  to  tell  such  little  scandals.  M.  de  C —  -  was  enlarg- 
ing on  the  somewhat  Bohemian  character  of  the  establishment  of 
a  lovely  foreign  lady,  who  possesses  the  secret  of  being  always 
surrounded  by  delightful  friends,  young  ladies  who  are  self-eman- 
cipated, quasi-widows  who,  by  divorce  suits,  have  regained  their 
liberty,  etc.  He  was  speaking  of  one  of  the  beauties  who  are 

friends  of  his  friend  Madame  S ,  as  men  speak  of  women  who 

have  proved  themselves  careless  of  public  opinion;    when  M. 

d' A ,  in  a  loud  voice,  interrupted  him ;  the  lie  was  given  in 

terms  that  of  course  led  to  the  hostile  meeting  of  which  the  press 
has  spoken,  attributing  it  to  a  dispute  about  the  Queen  of  Spades, 
when  it  really  concerned  the  Queen  of  Hearts." 

Then  she  had  made  no  mistake;  it  had  been  her 
flight  from  Madame  Strahlberg's  which  had  led  to  her 
being  attacked  by  one  man,  and  defended  by  the  other! 
Jacqueline  found  it  hard  to  recognize  herself  in  this 
tissue  of  lies,  insinuations,  and  half-truths.  What  did 
the  paper  mean  its  readers  to  understand  by  its  account  ? 
Was  it  a  jealous  rivalry  between  herself  and  Madame 
Strahlberg  ? — Was  M.  de  Cymier  meant  by  the  cock  ? — 
And  Fred  had  heard  all  this — he  had  drawn  his  sword 
to  refute  the  calumny.  Brave  Fred!  Alas!  he  had 
been  prompted  only  by  chivalric  generosity.  Doubt- 
less he,  also,  looked  upon  her  as  an  adventuress. 

All  night  poor  Jacqueline  wept  with  such  distress 
that  she  wished  that  she  might  die.  She  was  dropping 
off  to  sleep  at  last,  overpowered  by  fatigue,  when  a  ring 

[285] 


TH^O  BENTZON 

at  the  bell  in  the  early  morning  roused  her.  Then  she 
heard  whispering: 

"Do  you  think  she  is  so  unhappy?" 

It  was  the  voice  of  Giselle. 

"Come  in — come  in  quickly!"  she  cried,  springing 
out  of  bed.  Wrapped  in  a  dressing-gown,  with  bare 
feet,  her  face  pale,  her  eyelids  red,  her  complexion 
clouded,  she  rushed  to  meet  her  friend,  who  was  almost 
as  much  disordered  as  herself.  It  seemed  as  if  Madame 
de  Talbrun  might  also  have  passed  a  night  of  sleepless- 
ness and  tears. 

"You  have  come!  Oh!  you  have  come  at  last!" 
cried  Jacqueline,  throwing  her  arms  around  her,  but 
Giselle  repelled  her  with  a  gesture  so  severe  that  the 
poor  child  could  not  but  understand  its  meaning.  She 
murmured,  pointing  to  the  pile  of  newspapers:  "Is  it 
possible? — Can  you  have  believed  all  those  dreadful 
things?" 

"What  things?  I  have  read  nothing,"  said  Giselle, 
harshly.  "I  only  know  that  a  man  who  was  neither 
your  husband  nor  your  brother,  and  who  consequently 
was  under  no  obligation  to  defend  you,  has  been  foolish 
enough  to  be  nearly  killed  for  your  sake.  Is  not  that  a 
proof  of  your  downfall  ?  Don't  you  know  it  ?" 

"Downfall?"  repeated  Jacqueline,  as  if  she  did  not 
understand  her.  Then,  seizing  her  friend's  hand,  she 
forcibly  raised  it  to  her  lips:  "Ah!  what  can  anything 
matter  to  me,"  she  cried,  "if  only  you  remain  my 
friend;  and  he  has  never  doubted  me!" 

"Women  like  you  can  always  find  defenders,"  said 
Giselle,  tearing  her  hand  from  her  cousin's  grasp. 

[286] 


JACQUELINE 

Giselle  was  not  herself  at  that  moment.  "But,  for 
your  own  sake,  it  would  have  been  better  he  should 
have  abstained  from  such  an  act  of  Quixotism." 

"  Giselle!  can  it  be  that  you  think  me  guilty  ?" 

"Guilty!"  cried  Madame  de  Talbrun,  her  pale  face 
aflame.  "A  little  more  and  Monsieur  de  Cymier's 
sword-point  would  have  pierced  his  lungs." 

"Good  heavens!"  cried  Jacqueline,  hiding  her  face 
in  her  hands.  "But  I  have  done  nothing  to — 

"Nothing  except  to  set  two  men  against  each  other; 
to  make  them  suffer,  or  to  make  fools  of  them,  and  to 
be  loved  by  them  all  the  same." 

"I  have  not  been  a  coquette,"  said  Jacqueline,  with 
indignation. 

"You  must  have  been,  to  authorize  the  boasts  of 
Monsieur  de  Cymier.  He  had  seen  Fred  so  seldom,  and 
Tonquin  had  so  changed  him  that  he  spoke  in  his  pres- 
ence— without  supposing  any  one  would  interfere.  I 
dare  not  tell  you  what  he  said " 

"Whatever  spite  or  revenge  suggested  to  him,  no 
doubt,"  said  Jacqueline.  "Listen,  Giselle — Oh,  you 
must  listen.  I  shall  not  be  long." 

She  forced  her  to  sit  down;  she  crouched  on  a  foot- 
stool at  her  feet,  holding  her  hands  in  hers  so  tightly 
that  Giselle  could  not  draw  them  away,  and  began  her 
story,  with  all  its  details,  of  what  had  happened  to  her 
since  she  left  Fresne.  She  told  of  her  meeting  with 
Wanda ;  of  the  fatal  evening  which  had  resulted  in  her 
expulsion  from  the  convent;  her  disgust  at  the  Sparks 
family ;  the  snare  prepared  for  her  by  Madame  Strahl- 
berg.  "And  I  can  not  tell  you  all,"  she  added,  "I  can 

[287] 


TH^O  BENTZON 

not  tell  you  what  drove  me  away  from  my  true  friends, 
and  threw  me  among  these  people- 
Giselle's  sad  smile  seemed  to  answer,  "No  need — I 
am  aware  of  it — I  know  my  husband."  Encouraged  by 
this,  Jacqueline  went  on  with  her  confession,  hiding 
nothing  that  was  wrong,  showing  herself  just  as  she 
had  been,  a  poor,  proud  child  who  had  set  out  to  battle 
for  herself  in  a  dangerous  world.  At  every  step  she 
had  been  more  and  more  conscious  of  her  own  impru- 
dence, of  her  own  weakness,  and  of  an  ever- increasing 
desire  to  be  done  with  independence ;  to  submit  to  law, 
to  be  subject  to  any  rules  which  would  deliver  her  from 
the  necessity  of  obeying  no  will  but  her  own. 

"Ah!"  she  cried,  "I  am  so  disgusted  with  independ- 
ence, with  amusement,  and  amusing  people!  Tell  me 
what  to  do  in  future — I  am  weary  of  taking  charge  of 
myself.  I  said  so  the  other  day  to  the  Abbe  Bardin. 
He  is  the  only  person  I  have  seen  since  my  return.  It 
seems  to  me  I  am  coming  back  to  my  old  ideas — you 
remember  how  I  once  wished  to  end  my  days  in  the 
cell  of  a  Carmelite?  You  might  love  me  again  then, 
perhaps,  and  Fred  and  poor  Madame  d'Argy,  who  must 
feel  so  bitterly  against  me  since  her  son  was  wounded, 
might  forgive  me.  No  one  feels  bitterly  against  the 
dead,  and  it  is  the  same  as  being  dead  to  be  a  Carmel- 
ite nun.  You  would  all  speak  of  me  sometimes  to 
each  other  as  one  who  had  been  very  unhappy,  who 
had  been  guilty  of  great  foolishness,  but  who  had  re- 
paired her  faults  as  best  she  could." 

Poor  Jacqueline!  She  was  no  longer  a  girl  of  the 
period ;  in  her  grief  and  humiliation  she  belonged  to  the 

[288] 


JACQUELINE 

past.      Old  -  fashioned  forms  of  penitence  attracted 
her. 

"And  what  did  the  Abbe  Bardin  tell  you?"  asked 
Giselle,  with  a  slight  movement  of  her  shoulders. 

"He  only  told  me  that  he  could  not  say  at  present 
whether  that  were  my  vocation." 

"Nor  can  I,"  said  Giselle. 

Jacqueline  lifted  up  her  face,  wet  with  tears,  which 
she  had  been  leaning  on  the  lap  of  Giselle. 

"I  do  not  see  what  else  I  can  do,  unless  you  would 
get  me  a  place  as  governess  somewhere  at  the  ends  of 
the  earth,"  she  said.  "I  could  teach  children  their 
letters.  I  should  not  mind  doing  anything.  I  never 
should  complain.  Ah!  if  you  lived  all  by  yourself, 
Giselle,  how  I  should  implore  you  to  take  me  to  teach 
little  Enguerrand!" 

"I  think  you  might  do  better  than  that,"  said 
Giselle,  wiping  her  friend's  eyes  almost  as  a  mother 
might  have  done,  "if  you  would  only  listen  to  Fred." 

Jacqueline's  cheeks  became  crimson. 

"Don't  mock  me — it  is  cruel — I  am  too  unworthy — 
it  would  pain  me  to  see  him.  Shame — regret — you 
understand!  But  I  can  tell  you  one  thing,  Giselle — 
only  you.  You  may  tell  it  to  him  when  he  is  quite  old, 
when  he  has  been  long  married,  and  when  everything 
concerning  me  is  a  thing  of  the  past.  I  never  had  loved 
any  one  with  all  my  heart  up  to  the  moment  when  I 
read  in  that  paper  that  he  had  fought  for  me,  that 
his  blood  had  flowed  for  me,  that  after  all  that  had 
passed  he  still  thought  me  worthy  of  being  defended  by 
him." 

19  f  289 1 


TH^O  BENTZON 

Her  tears  flowed  fast,  and  she  added:  "I  shall  be 
proud  of  that  all  the  rest  of  my  life!  If  only  you,  too, 
would  forgive  me." 

The  heart  of  Giselle  was  melted  by  these  words. 

"Forgive  you,  my  dear  little  girl?  Ah!  you  have 
been  better  than  I.  I  forgot  our  old  friendship  for  a 
moment — I  was  harsh  to  you ;  and  I  have  so  little  right 
to  blame  you!  But  come!  Providence  may  have  ar- 
ranged all  for  the  best,  though  one  of  us  may  have  to 
suffer.  Pray  for  that  some  one.  Good-by — aurevoir!" 

She  kissed  Jacqueline's  forehead  and  was  gone,  be- 
fore her  cousin  had  seized  the  meaning  of  her  last 
words.  But  joy  and  peace  came  back  to  Jacqueline. 
She  had  recovered  her  best  friend,  and  had  convinced 
her  of  her  innocence. 


1 390  J 


CHAPTER  XIX 

GENTLE  CONSPIRATORS 

EFORE  Giselle  went  home  to  her  own 
house  she  called  on  the  Abbe,  Bardin, 
whom  a  rather  surly  servant  was  not 
disposed  to  disturb,  as  he  was  just 
eating  his  breakfast.  The  Abbe  Bar- 
din  was  Jacqueline's  confessor,  and 
he  held  the  same  relation  to  a  number 
of  other  young  girls  who  were  among 
her  particular  friends.  He  was  thoroughly  acquainted 
with  all  that  concerned  their  delicate  and  generally 
childish  little  souls.  He  kept  them  in  the  right  way, 
had  often  a  share  in  their  marriages,  and  in  general 
kept  an  eye  upon  them  all  their  lives.  Even  when  they 
escaped  from  him,  as  had  happened  in  the  case  of 
Jacqueline,  he  did  not  give  them  up.  He  commended 
them  to  God,  and  looked  forward  to  the  time  of  their 
repentance  with  the  patience  of  a  father.  The  Abb£ 
Bardin  had  never  been  willing  to  exercise  any  function 
but  that  of  catechist;  he  had  grown  old  in  the  humble 
rank  of  third  assistant  in  a  great  parish,  when,  with  a 
little  ambition,  he  might  have  been  its  rector.  "Suffer 
little  children  to  come  unto  me"  had  been  his  motto. 
These  words  of  his  Divine  Master  seemed  more  often 
than  any  others  on  his  lips — lips  so  expressive  of  loving- 

[291] 


BENTZON 

kindness,  though  sometimes  a  shrewd  smile  would  pass 
over  them  and  seem  to  say:  "I  know,  I  can  divine." 
But  when  this  smile,  the  result  of  long  experience,  did 
not  light  up  his  features,  the  good  Abbe  Bardin  looked 
like  an  elderly  child ;  he  was  short,  his  walk  was  a  trot, 
his  face  was  round  and  ruddy,  his  eyes,  which  were 
short-sighted,  were  large,  wide-open,  and  blue,  and  his 
heavy  crop  of  white  hair,  which  curled  and  crinkled 
above  his  forehead,  made  him  look  like  a  sixty-year- 
old  angel,  crowned  with  a  silvery  aureole. 

Rubbing  his  hands  affably,  he  came  into  the  little 
parlor  where  Madame  de  Talbrun  was  waiting  for 
him.  There  was  probably  no  ecclesiastic  in  all  Paris 
who  had  a  salon  so  full  of  worked  cushions,  each  of 
which  was  a  keepsake — a  souvenir  of  some  first  com- 
munion. The  Abbe  did  not  know  his  visitor,  but  the 
name  Talbrun  seemed  to  him  connected  with  an 
honorable  and  well-meaning  family.  The  lady  was 
probably  a  mother  who  had  come  to  put  her  child  into 
his  hands  for  religious  instruction.  He  received  visits 
from  dozens  of  such  mothers,  some  of  whom  were  a 
little  tiresome,  from  a  wish  to  teach  him  what  he  knew 
better  than  they,  and  at  one  time  he  had  set  apart 
Wednesday  as  his  day  for  receiving  such  visits,  that 
he  might  not  be  too  greatly  disturbed,  as  seemed  likely 
to  happen  to  him  that  day.  Not  that  he  cared  very 
much  whether  he  ate  his  cutlet  hot  or  cold,  but  his 
housekeeper  cared  a  great  deal.  A  man  may  be  a 
very  experienced  director,  and  yet  be  subject  to  direc- 
tion in  other  ways. 

The  youth  of  Giselle  took  him  by  surprise. 
[292] 


JACQUELINE 

"Monsieur  1'Abbe,"  she  said,  without  any  pre- 
amble, while  he  begged  her  to  sit  down,  "I  have  come 
to  speak  to  you  of  a  person  in  whom  you  take  an 
interest,  Jacqueline  de  Nailles." 

He  passed  the  back  of  his  hand  over  his  brow  and 
said,  with  a  sigh:  "Poor  little  thing!" 

"She  is  even  more  to  be  pitied  than  you  think.  You 
have  not  seen  her,  I  believe,  since  last  week." 

"Yes — she  came.  She  has  kept  up,  thank  God, 
some  of  her  religious  duties." 

"For  all  that,  she  has  played  a  leading  part  in  a 
recent  scandal." 

The  Abbe  sprang  up  from  his  chair. 

"A  duel  has  taken  place  because  of  her,  and  her 
name  is  in  all  men's  mouths — whispered,  of  course- 
but  the  quarrel  took  place  at  the  Club.  You  know 
what  it  is  to  be  talked  of  at  the  Club." 

"The  poison  of  asps,"  growled  the  Abbe;  "oh! 
those  clubs — think  of  all  the  evil  reports  concocted  in 
them,  of  which  women  are  the  victims!" 

"In  the  present  case  the  evil  report  was  pure  cal- 
umny. It  was  taken  up  by  some  one  whom  you  also 
know — Frederic  d'Argy." 

"I  have  had  profound  respect  these  many  years  for 
his  excellent  and  pious  mother." 

"I  thought  so.  In  that  case,  Monsieur  1'Abbe,  you 
would  not  object  to  going  to  Madame  d'Argy 's  house 
and  asking  how  her  son  is." 

"No,  of  course  not;  but — it  is  my  duty  to  disap- 
prove— 

"You  will  tell  her  that  when  a  young  man  has  com- 
[293] 


THEO  BENTZON 

promised  a  young  girl  by  defending  her  reputation  in 
a  manner  too  public,  there  is  but  one  thing  he  can  do 
afterward — marry  her." 

"Wait  one  moment,"  said  the  Abbe,  who  was  greatly 
surprised;  "it  is  certain  that  a  good  marriage  would 
be  the  best  thing  for  Jacqueline.  I  have  been  thinking 
of  it.  But  I  do  not  think  I  could  so  suddenly— so  soon 
after " 

"To-day  at  four  o'clock,  Monsieur  1'Abbe.  Time 
presses.  You  can  add  that  such  a  marriage  is  the  only 
way  to  stop  a  second  duel,  which  will  otherwise  take 
place." 

"Is  it  possible?" 

"And  it  is  also  the  only  way  to  bring  Frederic  to 
decide  on  sending  in  his  resignation.  Don't  forget  that 
— it  is  important." 

"But  how  do  you  know " 

The  poor  Abbe  stammered  out  his  words,  and 
counted  on  his  fingers  the  arguments  he  was  desired 
to  make  use  of. 

"And  you  will  solemnly  assure  them  that  Jacqueline 
is  innocent." 

"Oh!  as  to  that,  there  are  wolves  in  sheeps'  clothing, 
as  the  Bible  tells  us;  but  believe  me,  when  such  poor 
young  things  are  in  question,  it  is  more  often  the  sheep 
which  has  put  on  the  appearance  of  a  wolf — to  seem 
in  the  fashion,"  added  the  Abbe,  "just  to  seem  in  the 
fashion.  Fashion  will  authorize  any  kind  of  counter- 
feiting." 

"Well,  you  will  say  all  that,  will  you  not,  to  Madame 
d'Argy?  It  will  be  very  good  of  you  if  you  will.  She 

[294] 


JACQUELINE 

will  make  no  difficulties  about  money.  All  she  wants 
is  a  quietly  disposed  daughter-in-law  who  will  be  will- 
ing to  pass  nine  months  of  the  year  at  Lizerolles,  and 
Jacqueline  is  quite  cured  of  her  Paris  fever." 

"A  fever  too  often  mortal,"  murmured  the  Abbe; 
"oh,  for  the  simplicity  of  nature!  A  priest  whose  lot 
is  cast  in  the  country  is  fortunate,  Madame,  but  we 
can  not  choose  our  vocation.  We  may  do  good  any- 
where, especially  in  cities.  Are  you  sure,  however, 
that  Jacqueline ' 

"She  loves  Monsieur  d'Argy." 

"Well,  if  that  is  so,  we  are  all  right.  The  great  mis- 
fortune with  many  of  these  poor  girls  is  that  they  have 
never  learned  to  love  anything;  they  know  nothing  but 
agitations,  excitements,  curiosities,  and  fancies.  All 
that  sort  of  thing  runs  through  their  heads." 

"You  are  speaking  of  a  Jacqueline  before  the  duel. 
I  can  assure  you  that  ever  since  yesterday,  if  not  before, 
she  has  loved  Monsieur  d'Argy,  who  on  his  part  for  a  long 
time — a  very  long  time — has  been  in  love  with  her." 

Giselle  spoke  eagerly,  as  if  she  forced  herself  to  say 
the  words  that  cost  her  pain.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed 
under  her  veil.  The  Abbe,  who  was  keen-sighted,  ob- 
served these  signs. 

"But,"  continued  Giselle,  "if  he  is  forced  to  forget 
her  he  may  try  to  expend  elsewhere  the  affection  he 
feels  for  her ;  he  may  trouble  the  peace  of  others,  while 
deceiving  himself.  He  might  make  in  the  world  one 
of  those  attachments —  Do  not  fail  to  represent  all 
these  dangers  to  Madame  d'Argy  when  you  plead  the 
cause  of  Jacqueline." 

[295] 


THEO  BENTZON 

"Humph!  You  are  evidently  much  attached,  Ma- 
dame, to  Mademoiselle  de  Nailles." 

"Very  much,  indeed,"  she  answered,  bravely,  "very 
much  attached  to  her,  and  still  more  to  him;  therefore 
you  understand  that  this  marriage  must — absolutely 
must  take  place." 

She  had  risen  and  was  folding  her  cloak  round  her, 
looking  straight  into  the  Abbe's  eyes.  Small  as  she 
was,  their  height  was  almost  the  same;  she  wanted 
him  to  understand  thoroughly  why  this  marriage  must 
take  place. 

He  bowed.  Up  to  that  time  he  had  not  been  quite 
sure  that  he  had  not  to  do  with  one  of  those  wolves 
dressed  in  fleece  whose  appearance  is  as  misleading 
as  that  of  sheep  disguised  as  wolves:  now  his  opinion 
was  settled. 

"Mon  Dieu!  Madame,"  he  said,  "your  reasons  seem 
to  me  excellent — a  duel  to  be  prevented,  a  son  to  be 
kept  by  the  side  of  his  sick  mother,  two  young  people 
who  love  each  other  to  be  married,  the  saving,  possibly, 
of  two  souls ' 

"Say  three  souls,  Monsieur  PAbbe!" 

He  did  not  ask  whose  was  the  third,  nor  even  why 
she  had  insisted  that  this  delicate  commission  must  be 
executed  that  same  day.  He  only  bowed  when  she 
said  again:  "At  four  o'clock:  Madame  d'Argy  will 
be  prepared  to  see  you.  Thank  you,  Monsieur  PAbbe." 
And  then,  as  she  descended  the  staircase,  he  bestowed 
upon  her  silently  his  most  earnest  benediction,  before 
returning  to  the  cold  cutlet  that  was  on  his  breakfast- 
table. 

[296] 


JACQUELINE 

Giselle  did  not  breakfast  much  better  than  he.  In 
truth,  M.  de  Talbrun  being  absent,  she  sat  looking  at 
her  son,  who  was  eating  with  a  good  appetite,  while 
she  drank  only  a  cup  of  tea ;  after  which,  she  dressed 
herself,  with  more  than  usual  care,  hiding  by  rice-pow- 
der the  trace  of  recent  tears  on  her  complexion,  and 
arranging  her  fair  hair  in  the  way  that  was  most  be- 
coming to  her,  under  a  charming  little  bonnet  covered 
with  gold  net-work  which  corresponded  with  the  em- 
broidery on  an  entirely  new  costume. 

When  she  went  into  the  dining-room  Enguerrand, 
who  was  there  with  his  nurse  finishing  his  dessert, 
cried  out:  "Oh!  mamma,  how  pretty  you  are!"  which 
went  to  her  heart.  She  kissed  him  two  or  three  times 
— one  kiss  after  another. 

"I  try  to  be  pretty  for  your  sake,  my  darling." 

"Will  you  take  me  with  you?" 

"No,  but  I  will  come  back  for  you,  and  take  you 
out." 

She  walked  a  few  steps,  and  then  turned  to  give  him 
such  a  kiss  as  astonished  him,  for  he  said : 

"Is  it  really  going  to  be  long?" 

"What?" 

"Before  you  come  back?  You  kiss  me  as  if  you 
were  going  for  a  long  time,  far  away." 

"I  kissed  you  to  give  myself  courage." 

Enguerrand,  who,  when  he  had  a  hard  lesson  to 
learn,  always  did  the  same  thing,  appeared  to  under- 
stand her. 

"You  are  going  to  do  some  thing  you  don't 
like." 

[297] 


THEO  BENTZON 

"Yes,  but  I  have  to  do  it,  because  you  see  it  is  my 
duty." 

"Do  grown  people  have  duties?" 

"Even  more  than  children." 

"But  it  isn't  your  duty  to  write  a  copy — your  writing 
is  so  pretty.  Oh!  that's  what  I  hate  most.  And  you 
always  say  it  is  my  duty  to  write  my  copy.  I'll  go  and 
do  it  while  you  do  your  duty.  So  that  will  seem  as  if 
we  were  both  together  doing  something  we  don't  like — 
won't  it,  mamma?" 

She  kissed  him  again,  even  more  passionately. 

"We  shall  be  always  together,  we  two,  my  love!" 

This  word  love  struck  the  little  ear  of  Enguerrand 
as  having  a  new  accent,  a  new  meaning,  and,  boy-like, 
he  tried  to  turn  this  excess  of  tenderness  to  advantage. 

"Since  you  love  me  so  much,  will  you  take  me  to  see 
the  puppet-show?" 

"Anywhere  you  like — when  I  come  back.  Good- 
by!" 


[298] 


CHAPTER  XX 

A  CHIVALROUS  SOUL 

fADAME  D'ARGY  sat  knitting  by 
the  window  in  Fred's  chamber,  with 
that  resigned  but  saddened  air  that 
mothers  wear  when  they  are  occu- 
pied in  repairing  the  consequences 
of  some  rash  folly.  Fred  had  seen 
her  in  his  boyhood  knitting  in  the 
same  way  with  the  same  look  on  her 
face,  when  he  had  been  thrown  from  his  pony,  or  had 
fallen  from  his  velocipede.  He  himself  looked  ill  at 
ease  and  worried,  as  he  lay  on  a  sofa  with  his  arm  in 
a  sling.  He  was  yawning  and  counting  the  hours. 
From  time  to  time  his  mother  glanced  at  him.  Her 
look  was  curious,  and  anxious,  and  loving,  all  at  the 
same  time.  He  pretended  to  be  asleep.  He  did  not 
like  to  see  her  watching  him.  His  handsome  mascu- 
line face,  tanned  that  pale  brown  which  tropical  cli- 
mates give  to  fair  complexions,  looked  odd  as  it  rose 
above  a  light-blue  cape,  a  very  feminine  garment 
which,  as  it  had  no  sleeves,  had  been  tied  round  his 
neck  to  keep  him  from  being  cold.  He  felt  himself, 
with  some  impatience,  at  the  mercy  of  the  most  tender, 
but  the  most  sharp-eyed  of  nurses,  a  prisoner  to  her 
devotion,  and  made  conscious  of  her  power  every  mo- 

[299] 


BENTZON 

ment.  Her  attentions  worried  him ;  he  knew  that  they 
all  meant  "It  is  your  own  fault,  my  poor  boy,  that  you 
are  in  this  state,  and  that  your  mother  is  so  unhappy." 
He  felt  it.  He  knew  as  well  as  if  she  had  spoken  that 
she  was  asking  him  to  return  to  reason,  to  marry,  with- 
out more  delay,  their  little  neighbor  in  Normandy, 
Mademoiselle  d'Argeville,  a  niece  of  M.  Martel,  whom 
he  persisted  in  not  thinking  of  as  a  wife,  always  calling 
her  a  "cider  apple,"  in  allusion  to  her  red  cheeks. 

A  servant  came  in,  and  said  to  Madame  d'Argy  that 
Madame  de  Talbrun  was  in  the  salon. 

"I  am  coming,"  she  said,  rolling  up  her  knitting. 

But  Fred  suddenly  woke  up: 

"Why  not  ask  her  to  come  here?" 

"Very  good,"  said  his  mother,  with  hesitation.  She 
was  distracted  between  her  various  anxieties;  ex- 
asperated against  the  fatal  influence  of  Jacqueline, 
alarmed  by  the  increasing  intimacy  with  Giselle,  de- 
sirous that  all  such  complications  should  be  put  an 
end  to  by  his  marriage,  but  terribly  afraid  that  her 
"cider  apple"  would  not  be  sufficient  to  accomplish  it. 

"Beg  Madame  de  Talbrun  to  come  in  here,"  she 
said,  repeating  the  order  after  her  son;  but  she  settled 
herself  in  her  chair  with  an  air  more  patient,  more 
resigned  than  ever,  and  her  lips  were  firmly  closed. 

Giselle  entered  in  her  charming  new  gown,  and 
Fred's  first  words,  like  those  of  Enguerrand,  were: 
"How  pretty  you  are!  It  is  charity,"  he  added,  smil- 
ing, "to  present  such  a  spectacle  to  the  eyes  of  a  sick 
man;  it  is  enough  to  set  him  up  again." 

"Isn't  it?"  said  Giselle,  kissing  Madame  d'Argy  on 
[300] 


JACQUELINE 

the  forehead.  The  poor  mother  had  resumed  her 
knitting  with  a  sigh,  hardly  glancing  at  the  pretty 
walking-costume,  nor  at  the  bonnet  with  its  network 
of  gold. 

"Isn't  it  pretty?"  repeated  Giselle.  "I  am  de- 
lighted with  this  costume.  It  is  made  after  one  of 
Rejane's.  Oscar  fell  in  love  with  it  at  a  first  represen- 
tation of  a  vaudeville,  and  he  gave  me  over  into  the 
hands  of  the  same  dressmaker,  who  indeed  was  named 
in  the  play.  That  kind  of  advertising  seems  very 
effective." 

She  went  on  chattering  thus  to  put  off  what  she  had 
really  come  to  say.  Her  heart  was  beating  so  fast 
that  its  throbs  could  be  seen  under  the  embroidered 
front  of  the  bodice  which  fitted  her  so  smoothly.  She 
wondered  how  Madame  d'Argy  would  receive  the  sug- 
gestion she  was  about  to  make. 

She  went  on:  "I  dressed  myself  in  my  best  to-day 
because  I  am  so  happy." 

Madame  d'Argy's  long  tortoiseshell  knitting-needles 
stopped. 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  my  dear,"  she  said,  coldly, 
"I  am  glad  anybody  can  be  happy.  There  are  so 
many  of  us  who  are  sad." 

"But  why  are  you  pleased?"  asked  Fred,  looking  at 
her,  as  if  by  some  instinct  he  understood  that  he  had 
something  to  do  with  it. 

"Our  prodigal  has  returned,"  answered  Giselle, 
with  a  little  air  of  satisfaction,  very  artificial,  however, 
for  she  could  hardly  breathe,  so  great  was  her  fear  and 
her  emotion.  "My  house  is  in  the  garb  of  rejoicing." 


TH^O  BENTZON 

"The  prodigal?  Do  you  mean  your  husband?" 
said  Madame  d'Argy,  maliciously. 

"Oh!  I  despair  of  him,"  replied  Giselle,  lightly. 
"No,  I  speak  of  a  prodigal  who  did  not  go  far,  and 
who  made  haste  to  repent.  I  am  speaking  of  Jacque- 
line." 

There  was  complete  silence.  The  knitting-needles 
ticked  rapidly,  a  slight  flush  rose  on  the  dark  cheeks 
of  Fred. 

"All  I  beg,"  said  Madame  d'Argy,  "is  that  you  will 
not  ask  me  to  eat  the  fatted  calf  in  her  honor.  The 
comings  and  going  of  Mademoiselle  de  Nailles  have 
long  ceased  to  have  the  slightest  interest  for  me." 

"They  have  for  Fred  at  any  rate;  he  has  just  proved 
it,  I  should  say,"  replied  Giselle. 

By  this  time  the  others  were  as  much  embarrassed 
as  Giselle.  She  saw  it,  and  went  on  quickly : 

"Their  names  are  together  in  everybody's  mouth; 
you  can  not  hinder  it." 

"I  regret  it  deeply — and  allow  me  to  make  one  re- 
mark :  it  seems  to  me  you  show  a  want  of  tact  such  as 
I  should  never  have  imagined  in  you,  my  dear,  in  tell- 
ing us- 
Giselle  read  in  Fred's  eyes,  which  were  steadily 
fixed  on  her,  that  he  was,  on  that  point,  of  his  mother's 
opinion.  She  went  on,  however,  still  pretending  to 
blunder. 

"Forgive  me — but  I  have  been  so  anxious  about 
you  ever  since  I  heard  there  was  to  be  a  second  meet- 
ing- 

"A  second   meeting!"   screamed  Madame  d'Argy, 

[302] 


JACQUELINE 

who,  as  she  read  no  paper  but  the  Gazette  de  France, 
or  occasionally  the  Debats,  knew  nothing  of  all  the 
rumors  that  find  their  echo  in  the  daily  papers. 

"Oh,  mon  Dieu!    I  thought  you  knew— 

"You  need  not  frighten  my  mother,"  said  Fred, 
almost  angrily;  "Monsieur  de  Cymier  has  written  a 
letter  which  puts  an  end  to  our  quarrel.  It  is  the  let- 
ter of  a  man  of  honor  apologizing  for  having  spoken 
lightly,  for  having  repeated  false  rumors  without  verify- 
ing them — in  short,  retracting  all  that  he  had  said  that 
reflected  in  any  way  on  Mademoiselle  de  Nailles,  and 
authorizing  me,  if  I  think  best,  to  make  public  his 
retraction.  After  that  we  can  have  nothing  more  to 
say  to  each  other." 

"He  who  makes  himself  the  champion  to  defend  a 
young  girl's  character,"  said  Madame  d'Argy,  senten- 
tiously,  "injures  her  as  much  as  those  who  have  spo- 
ken evil  of  her." 

"That  is  exactly  what  I  think,"  said  Giselle.  "The 
self-constituted  champion  has  given  the  evil  rumor  cir- 
culation." 

There  was  again  a  painful  silence.  Then  the  intre- 
pid little  woman  resumed:  "This  step  on  the  part  of 
Monsieur  de  Cymier  seems  to  have  rendered  my 
errand  unnecessary.  I  had  thought  of  a  way  to  end 
this  sad  affair;  a  very  simple  way,  much  better,  most 
certainly,  than  men  cutting  their  own  throats  or  those 
of  other  people.  But  since  peace  has  been  made  over 
the  ruins  of  Jacqueline's  reputation,  I  had  better  say 
nothing  and  go  away." 

"No — no!  Let  us  hear  what  you  had  to  propose," 
[303] 


THEO  BENTZON 

said  Fred,  getting  up  from  his  couch  so  quickly  that 
he  jarred  his  bandaged  arm,  and  uttered  a  cry  of  pain, 
which  seemed  very  much  like  an  oath,  too. 

Giselle  was  silent.  Standing  before  the  hearth,  she 
was  warming  her  small  feet,  watching,  as  she  did  so, 
Madame  d'Argy's  profile,  which  was  reflected  in  the 
mirror.  It  was  severe — impenetrable.  It  was  Fred 
who  spoke  first. 

"In  the  first  place,"  he  said,  hesitating,  "are  you 
sure  that  Mademoiselle  de  Nailles  has  not  just  arrived 
from  Monaco?" 

"I  am  certain  that  for  a  week  she  has  been  living 
quietly  with  Modeste,  and  that,  though  she  passed 
through  Monaco,  she  did  not  stay  there  twenty-four 
hours,  finding  that  the  air  of  that  place  did  not  agree 
with  her." 

"But  what  do  you  say  to  what  Monsieur  Martel  saw 
with  his  own  eyes,  and  which  is  confirmed  by  public 
rumor?"  cried  Madame  d'Argy,  as  if  she  were  giving 
a  challenge. 

"Monsieur  Martel  saw  Jacqueline  in  bad  company. 
She  was  not  there  of  her  own  will.  As  to  public  rumor, 
we  may  feel  sure  that  to  make  it  as  flattering  to  her 
tomorrow  as  it  is  otherwise  to-day  only  a  marriage  is 
necessary.  Yes,  a  marriage!  That  is  the  way  I  had 
thought  of  to  settle  everything  and  make  everybody 
happy." 

"What  man  would  marry  a  girl  who  had  comprom- 
ised herself?"  said  Madame  d'Argy,  indignantly. 

"He  who  has  done  his  part  to  compromise  her." 

"Then  go  and  propose  it  to  Monsieur  de  Cyrnier!" 
[3°4] 


JACQUELINE 

"No.  It  is  not  Monsieur  de  Cymier  whom  she 
loves." 

"Ah!"  Madame  d'Argy  was  on  her  feet  at  once. 
"Indeed,  Giselle,  you  are  losing  your  senses.  If  I 
were  not  afraid  of  agitating  Fred- 
He  was,  in  truth,  greatly  agitated.  The  only  hand 
that  he  could  use  was  pulling  and  tearing  at  the  little 
blue  cape  crossed  on  his  breast,  in  which  his  mother 
had  wrapped  him ;  and  this  unsuitable  garment  formed 
such  a  queer  contrast  to  the  expression  of  his  face  that 
Giselle,  in  her  nervous  excitement,  burst  out  laughing, 
an  explosion  of  merriment  which  completed  the  ex- 
asperation of  Madame  d'Argy. 

"Never!"  she  cried,  beside  herself.  "You  hear  me 
— never  will  I  consent,  whatever  happens!" 

At  that  moment  the  door  was  partly  opened,  and  a 
servant  announced  "Monsieur  1'Abbe  Bardin." 

Madame  d'Argy  made  a  gesture  which  was  anything 
but  reverential. 

"Well,  to  be  sure — this  is  the  right  moment  with  a 
vengeance!  What  does  he  want!  Does  he  wish  me 
to  assist  in  some  good  work — or  to  undertake  to  collect 
money,  which  I  hate— 

"Above  all,  mother,"  cried  Fred,  "don't  expose  me 
to  the  fatigue  of  receiving  his  visit.  Go  and  see  him 
yourself.  Giselle  will  take  care  of  your  patient  while 
you  are  gone.  Won't  you,  Giselle?" 

His  voice  was  soft,  and  very  affectionate.  He  evi- 
dently was  not  angry  at  what  she  had  dared  to  say, 
and  she  acknowledged  this  to  herself  with  an  aching 
heart. 

20  [  305  ] 


TH^O  BENTZON 

"I  don't  exactly  trust  your  kind  of  care,"  said  Ma- 
dame d'Argy,  with  a  smile  that  was  not  gay,  and 
certainly  not  amiable. 

She  went,  however,  because  Fred  repeated: 

"But  go  and  see  the  Abbe  Bardin." 

Hardly  had  she  left  the  room  when  Fred  got  up  from 
his  sofa  and  approached  Giselle  with  passionate  eager- 
ness. 

"Are  you  sure  I  am  not  dreaming,"  said  he.  "Is  it 
you — really  you  who  advise  me  to  marry  Jacqueline?" 

"Who  else  should  it  be?"  she  answered,  very  calm 
to  all  appearance.  "Who  can  know  better  than  I? 
But  first  you  must  oblige  me  by  lying  down  again,  or 
else  I  will  not  say  one  word  more.  That  is  right. 
Now  keep  still.  Your  mother  is  furiously  displeased 
with  me — I  am  sorry — but  she  will  get  over  it.  I  know 
that  in  Jacqueline  you  would  have  a  good  wife — a  wife 
far  better  than  the  Jacqueline  you  would  have  married 
formerly.  She  has  paid  dearly  for  her  experience  of 
life,  and  has  profited  by  its  lessons,  so  that  she  is  now 
worthy  of  you,  and  sincerely  repentant  for  her  childish 
peccadilloes." 

"Giselle,"  said  Fred,  "look  me  full  in  the  face — yes, 
look  into  my  eyes  frankly  and  hide  nothing.  Your 
eyes  never  told  anything  but  the  truth.  Why  do  you 
turn  them  away?  Do  you  really  and  truly  wish  this 
marriage?" 

She  looked  at  him  steadily  as  long  as  he  would,  and 
let  him  hold  her  hand,  which  was  burning  inside  her 
glove,  and  which  with  a  great  effort  she  prevented 
from  trembling.  Then  her  nerves  gave  way  under  his 

[306] 


JACQUELINE 

long  and  silent  gaze,  which  seemed  to  question  her, 
and  she  laughed,  a  laugh  that  sounded  to  herself  very 
unnatural. 

"My  poor,  dear  friend,"  she  cried,  "how  easily  you 
men  are  duped!  You  are  trying  to  find  out,  to  dis- 
cover whether,  in  case  you  decide  upon  an  honest  act,  ci 
perfectly  sensible  act,  to  which  you  are  strongly  inclined 
— don't  tell  me  you  are  not — whether,  in  short,  you 
marry  Jacqueline,  I  shall  be  really  as  glad  of  it  as  I 
pretend.  But  have  you  not  found  out  what  I  have 
aimed  at  all  along?  Do  you  think  I  did  not  know 
from  the  very  first  what  it  was  that  made  you  seek  me  ? 
I  was  not  the  rose,  but  I  had  lived  near  the  rose ;  I.  re- 
minded you  of  her  continually.  We  two  loved  her; 
each  of  us  felt  we  did.  Even  when  you  said  harm  of 
her,  I  knew  it  was  merely  because  you  longed  to  utter 
her  name,  and  repeat  to  yourself  her  perfections.  I 
laughed,  yes,  I  laughed  to  myself,  and  I  was  careful 
how  I  contradicted  you.  I  tried  to  keep  you  safe  for 
her,  to  prevent  your  going  elsewhere  and  forming 
attachments  which  might  have  resulted  in  your  forget- 
ting her.  I  did  my  best — do  me  justice — I  did  my 
best;  perhaps  sometimes  I  pushed  things  a  little  far— 
in  her  interest,  in  that  of  your  mother,  but  in  yours 
more  than  all;  in  yours,  for  God  knows  I  am  all  for 
you,"  said  Giselle,  with  sudden  and  involuntary  fervor. 
"Yes,  I  am  all  yours  as  a  friend,  a  faithful  friend,"  she 
resumed,  almost  frightened  by  the  tones  of  her  own 
voice;  "but  as  to  the  slightest  feeling  of  love  between 
us,  love  the  most  spiritual,  the  most  platonic — yes,  all 
men,  I  fancy,  have  a  little  of  that  kind  of  self-conceit. 

[307] 


THfiO  BENTZON 

Dear  Fred,  don't  imagine  it — Enguerrand  would  never 
have  allowed  it." 

She  was  smiling,  half  laughing,  and  he  looked  at  her 
with  astonishment,  asking  himself  whether  he  could 
believe  what  she  was  saying,  when  he  could  recollect 
what  seemed  to  him  so  many  proofs  to  the  contrary. 
Yet  in  what  she  said  there  was  no  hesitation,  no  inco- 
herence, no  false  note.  Pride,  noble  pride,  upheld  her 
to  the  end.  The  first  falsehood  of  her  life  was  a  mas- 
terpiece. 

"Ah,  Giselle!"  he  said  at  last,  not  knowing  what 
to  think,  "I  adore  you!  I  revere  you!" 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  with  a  smile,  gracious,  yet  with 
a  touch  of  sadness,  "I  know  you  do.  But  her  you 
love!" 

Might  it  not  have  been  sweet  to  her  had  he  answered : 
"No,  I  loved  her  once,  and  remembered  that  old  love 
enough  to  risk  my  life  for  her,  but  in  reality  I  now  love 
only  you — all  the  more  at  this  moment  when  I  see  you 
love  me  more  than  yourself."  But,  instead,  he  mur- 
mured only,  like  a  man  and  a  lover:  "And  Jacqueline 
—do  you  think  she  loves  me?"  His  anxiety,  a  thrill 
that  ran  through  all  his  frame,  the  light  in  his  eyes,  his 
sudden  pallor,  told  more  than  his  words. 

If  Giselle  could  have  doubted  his  love  for  Jacque- 
line before,  she  would  have  now  been  convinced  of  it. 
The  conviction  stabbed  her  to  the  heart.  Death  is  not 
that  last  sleep  in  which  all  our  faculties,  weakened  and 
exhausted,  fail  us;  it  is  the  blow  which  annihilates  our 
supreme  illusion  and  leaves  us  disabused  in  a  cold  and 
empty  world.  People  walk,  talk,  and  smile  after  this 

[308] 


JACQUELINE 

death — another  ghost  is  added  to  the  drama  played  on 
the  stage  of  the  world;  but  the  real  self  is  dead. 

Giselle  was  too  much  of  a  woman,  angelic  as  she  was, 
to  have  any  courage  left  to  say:  "Yes,  I  know  she 
loves  you." 

She  said  instead,  in  a  low  voice:  "That  is  a  question 
you  must  ask  of  her." 

Meantime,  in  the  next  room  they  could  hear  Ma- 
dame d'Argy  vehemently  repeating:  "Never!  No,  I 
never  will  consent!  Is  it  a  plot  between  you?" 

They  heard  also  a  rumbling  monotone  preceding 
each  of  these  vehement  interruptions.  The  Abbe 
Bardin  was  pointing  out  to  her  that,  unmarried,  her 
son  would  return  to  Tonquin,  that  Lizerolles  would  be 
left  deserted,  her  house  would  be  desolate  without 
daughter-in-law  or  grandchildren;  and,  as  he  drew 
these  pictures,  he  came  back,  again  and  again,  to  his 
main  argument: 

"I  will  answer  for  their  happiness:  I  will  answer 
for  the  future." 

His  authority  as  a  priest  gave  weight  to  this  assur- 
ance, at  least  Madame  d'Argy  felt  it  so.  She  went  on 
saying  never,  but  less  and  less  emphatically,  and  ap- 
parently she  ceased  to  say  it  at  last,  for  three  months 
later  the  d'Etaples,  the  Rays,  the  d'Avrignys  and  the 
rest,  received  two  wedding  announcements  in  these 
words: 

"Madame  d'Argy  has  the  honor  to  inform  you  of  the  marriage 
of  her  son,  M.  Frederic  d'Argy,  Chevalier  of  the  Legion  of  Honor, 
to  Mademoiselle  de  Nailles." 

[309] 


THfiO  BENTZON 

The  accompanying  card  ran  thus: 

"The  Baroness  de  Nailles  has  the  honor  to  inform  you  of  the 
marriage  of  Mademoiselle  Jacqueline  de  Nailles,  her  stepdaughter, 
to  M.  Frederic  d'Argy." 

Congratulations  showered  down  on  both  mother  and 
stepmother.  A  love-match  is  nowadays  so  rare!  It 
turned  out  that  every  one  had  always  wished  all  kinds 
of  good  fortune  to  young  Madame  d'Argy,  and  every 
one  seemed  to  take  a  sincere  part  in  the  joy  that  was 
expressed  on  the  occasion,  even  Dolly,  who,  it  was 
said,  had  in  secret  set  her  heart  on  Fred  for  herself; 
even  Nora  Sparks,  who,  not  having  carried  out  her 
plans,  had  gone  back  to  New  York,  whence  she  sent 
a  superb  wedding  present.  Madame  de  Nailles  ap- 
parently experienced  at  the  wedding  all  the  emotions 
of  a  real  mother. 

The  roses  at  Lizerolles  bloomed  that  year  with  un- 
usual beauty,  as  if  to  welcome  the  young  pair.  Mo- 
deste  sang  Nunc  Dimittis.  The  least  demonstrative 
of  all  those  interested  in  the  event  was  Giselle. 


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